Red Rain
by The Fink
Summary: With an unexpected house guest the week was never going to be easy, but even Nick didn't think it could be this bad: A new gang in town's dragging up old memories and leaving a trail of new bodies and if Nick doesn't figure it out, he'll be next...
1. Crystal Visions

Of the characters only Libby and a few assorted goons, thugs and bad guys are my invention. The rest belong to CBS and people who are definitely not me; I'm just borrowing them for a little while. No harm, no foul.

Set in season 6, a day or so after the end of Gum Drops

With many, MANY thank yous to procrastin8or951 for the help and beta'ing

* * *

A Crystal Vision

It was Lake Mead. That much Nick was sure of. It had to be Lake Mead he was looking at; the question was, why? He took a step forwards and realised two further things. The ground was abnormally warm and his feet were bare. A growing feeling of unease made him take another step forwards but now his bare feet seemed to be mired in thick, too-warm mud. What was going on here?

Stopped from moving forwards, Nick turned his attention to the rest of his surroundings. There was a Denali behind him, skewed at an angle with its doors flung wide open. His? Had he been in that much of a hurry to reach this spot? Why?

Movement to his left caught his attention. There were three men, all built like quarterbacks, all dressed in black, all aiming guns at a kneeling figure on the lake shore. Beyond them was a wispy figure of a girl. She looked familiar but she was too far away for him to make out more than the barest details. The kneeling figure was much clearer. Close cropped dark hair. Black stab-proof vest. Dark jeans. Rust-coloured shirt.

Glancing down at himself, Nick realised that the kneeling figure was wearing item-for-item the same outfit as he was.

Cold sweat trickled down his spine. What the hell was this?

He tried to focus on the girl. Perhaps, if he could identify her, he could work out what was going on, but no matter how hard he tried, no matter how hard he stared, he couldn't see her clearly. A phantom behind an all too real stand off.

And then the three gun-toting goons fired and she screamed and Nick found himself surging upright in bed, half expecting to feel the burn of three bullets ripping into his chest.

It took a moment or two for reality to register. That there were no gun shot wounds; there was no smell of cordite; there were no goons; that he wasn't on his knees on the shore of Lake Mead; that he was, in fact, at home, in bed and everything was just fine and dandy.

He swallowed, hard. He'd had nightmares before; hell, he had a regular rotation of the damn things, from being held at gun point, to being thrown through a window to being eaten alive by fire ants, with the odd digression into some of the weirder and sicker cases he'd investigated just for a little variation. This, though, was not a nightmare. It wasn't a memory that his battered psyche had picked on to replay in technicolour detail. At the same time, though, it was far too lucid to be his subconscious attempting to process something that had happened in the recent past. It was weird - and that was the only word he could come up with.

Nick scrubbed a hand over his face in tired fashion and eyed the bedside clock. The red digits mockingly informed him that it was six o'clock in the afternoon. His alarm would be going off in another hour. No point in going back to sleep. As bad as he felt right now, he'd feel even worse for getting that one extra hour of sleep - and that assumed he would actually manage to sleep, which he doubted. Getting back to sleep after such a vivid dream was not an option his mind let him take. Not without serious chemical help.

He rubbed his face again and flung the twisted bedding aside. If he wasn't going to sleep again, he might just as well start his day early. Give him more time to catch up on the household chores that had been overlooked while he'd been up in Pioche. His mouth twisted in a wry smile. There was laundry that needed to be done, groceries that needed to be bought, floors that needed to be cleaned. It was all mindless stuff when what he really wanted was distraction, but it was the best he could do. At least for now.

The knock on his front door brought a halt to his musings.

Reflexively, Nick glanced back at the clock. Five after six. Who in the hell would be knocking on his door at this time of day? Wouldn't be neighbours, they knew he worked nights and tended to be asleep right now. Wouldn't be any of his coworkers for the same reason. He wasn't expecting any visitors, so that pretty much ruled out friends and family - and, heck, they all knew he worked nights, too. That just left cops and door to door salesmen. He grimaced. Neither was an appealing prospect.

There was another knock. More frantic this time.

"Gimme a minute!" Nick called. He hauled on a pair of ratty sweats and a stained t-shirt, then made his way towards the door. Past experience and present paranoia tempted him to grab his gun as he passed it, but he shoved that thought away. No need to escalate if the caller was just a travelling vacuum salesman.

The caller either hadn't heard his yell or didn't care. They made another assault on his door, suggesting that whoever it was considered this visit to be urgent. That probably ruled out every other suspect barring the cops.

Nick sighed. This couldn't be good. He took a second to peer through the spy hole to confirm his visitor was a cop. The next moment, he was ripping the door open and staring face to face at the waif-like teenage girl standing on his doorstep.

"Surprise, Uncle Nicky!"

* * *

_To be continued..._


	2. Truth Left Behind

Of the characters only Libby and a few assorted goons, thugs and bad guys are my invention. The rest belong to CBS and people who are definitely not me; I'm just borrowing them for a little while. No harm, no foul.

Set in season 6, a day or so after the end of Gum Drops

With many, MANY thank yous to procrastin8or951 for the help and beta'ing

And thank you also to everyone who's read and reviewed and enjoyed - I'm hoping to post with MUCH more frequency from this point on!

* * *

Truth Left Behind

Nick stared at the girl for a moment trying desperately to collect his thoughts. She was supposed to be in Dallas, probably sitting down to dinner after a busy day of school, not standing on his doorstep looking somewhere between nervous and terrified.

"Uncle Nicky?"

The terror was beginning to out weigh the nerves and belatedly Nick realised he still hadn't said anything which was almost certainly not helping. "Elizabeth Mary Stokes what in the blue hell are you doing here?"

"You-- You always said I could come visit," she answered in a small voice.

He had said that, hadn't he? Well, shit.

Without saying another word, Nick opened his door wider to admit the teenager, then shut it behind her. When she hesitated about which way to go, he ushered her into the living room and gestured for her to sit down on the couch. He took up a standing position in front of her and folded his arms across his chest.

"You want to run by me just why you've showed up now and unannounced?" he asked.

"I ran away," the tiny voice answered. She bowed her head, letting a curtain of long brown hair fall in front of her face, shielding it from his suspicious gaze.

"You ran away," Nick repeated. "So no one knows you're here?" There was a shake of the head; the curtain of hair shivered in place. "Pretty boneheaded. Why'd you do that?"

"I'm in trouble."

"Figures." Nick crossed the room and retrieved his cell phone from where he'd left it charging that morning. "I'm calling Cisco."

"Please don't send me home!" she begged.

Nick rolled his eyes. "Libby, whatever this is, you're gonna have to go home at some point. That's not why I'm calling Cisco, though."

Libby's head raised enough to lift the curtain of hair. "Then why?"

"Because if you've done what I think you've done, they're gonna be having kittens about you and if I don't tell Cisco you're safe, he'll tan my hide." Preventing further argument, he pushed the speed dial number for his parents' home and lifted his cell phone to his ear. It took two rings before it was answered. Proof, as far as Nick was concerned, that his family were definitely in a state of panic. "Hey mom."

"Nick?"

Nick had to smile at the disappointed note in his mother's voice. "You guys lose something maybe?"

There was a long sigh. "Libby's with you?"

"Just got here," said Nick.

"Is she okay?"

Nick eyed the girl with a practiced glance. "Looks to be, but I haven't really got into what she's doing here yet. Soon as she said what she'd done, I knew I needed to let you know she was here." He turned away from the couch and started pacing. "She fighting with Diane again?"

"It's worse than that," said his mother with another sigh.

That made Nick's eyebrows lift. "Worse?" He turned back to Libby but she was studiously ignoring him and giving nothing away. "You gonna fill me in or do I need to find out from Libby?"

There was a long pause and Nick heard the sounds of the phone receiver being transferred from one pair of hands to another. The next voice he heard was his father's. "Nick, we don't exactly know what's happened. She's been acting strange the last month or so - wouldn't talk to any of us. Then the night before last, she got into a screaming match with Diane - so Billy says, at least - and ran off. We haven't seen her since."

Nick's eyebrows climbed even further. "What's Diane said about any of this?" Out of the corner of his eye he saw Libby cringe. He turned away again.

"Not a lot." The tightness in his father's voice illustrated the older man's basic contempt for his daughter-in-law. "You know how she is."

Nick did. "So what do you want me to do?"

"Can you look after her for a few days? Your mother and I can't get up to Las Vegas until the weekend and I don't want our granddaughter to travel back alone."

Nick noted that there was no suggestion of Libby's parents being the ones to travel to Las Vegas. "All right; think I can take care of her until then."

There was another long pause as the phone was transferred again. His mother said, "Maybe you can find out what's going on. You know she thinks the world of you."

Nick turned back towards the couch. Libby was now studying the rug as if it held all the answers. He shook his head. "See what I can do." But he didn't feel terribly hopeful.

He wrapped up the call and deposited the cell phone on a convenient end table. What in the world was he supposed to do with a teenage house guest for the next five days, he wondered. And just what had been so bad that said teenager had opted to run all the way from Dallas to Las Vegas? Questions. Way too many questions. Time to start getting answers.

"Libby?" Nick waited until she finally lifted her gaze from the rug. "You're gonna be here for the next few days. Cisco and Grandma won't be here until the weekend and I am not gonna send you anywhere without them."

Libby's face twisted into a grimace. "Can't I just stay here with you?"

"You are, for right now," Nick pointed out. "But you have school and family and whatnot waiting for you back home so..."

"No I don't," said Libby sharply.

"To which part?"

"School kicked me out."

Nick found his jaw hinging open of its own accord. "What?"

"No big deal," said Libby casually, looking back down at her lap.

Nick begged to differ, but before he could continue the interrogation, his stomach growled and reminded him that even if it was early evening, as far as his body was concerned, it was time for breakfast. He ran his hand over his head. "You hungry?" he asked.

Libby's head jerked up at the unexpected question. A suspicious expression crossed her face. "Why?"

"Because even if you're not, I am," Nick retorted, the corner of his mouth twisting up in a half smile. "There's a great place just round the corner. We can get something to eat and then we can start figuring out what you're doing here."

At the mention of getting food, Libby's expression lightened only to darken at the clear implication that the meal was not going to get her out of the interrogation.

Nick shook his head and crouched down in front of her. "Look, Libby, I don't want to poke and pry. I figure that you've got your reasons for wanting to be away from home right now and I figure they're probably good ones. I know you're a smart kid. Thing of it is, though, you've turned up on my doorstep unannounced so I think you owe me something more than what you've given me so far." He offered her a smile. "You know I'm not gonna yell and scream at you like your mom and I kinda figure that's one reason why you've pitched on me to run to."

"It was easier to get here than it was to Nebraska," said Libby. "Otherwise I'd have gone to Aunt Anna."

The smile turned to a full blown grin. "Didn't say it was the only reason." At the back of his mind, he logged the fact that she'd named the only other member of the extended Stokes family to live outside the boundaries of Texas. Significant? "You be okay if I grab a quick shower before we go?"

"Sure."

For a moment, it looked as if Libby was going to say something more, then she shook her head. Nick nodded and guessed that meant she'd be a little more receptive to his questions later, but probably not by much. He sighed. "All right. Won't be long." And so saying, he pushed to his feet and started for the living room door.

"Uncle Nicky?"

Nick paused and looked back at his niece. "What is it, Libby?"

"Are you...okay?"

"Any reason I shouldn't be?" Nick asked, deliberately keeping his tone light.

"Mom said...you'd been hurt."

From the cautious way Libby phrased it, Nick could guess all too easily that his sister-in-law hadn't been anything near so kind in her turn of phrase. "I was, but I'm fine now."

Libby gave him a wall-eyed stare that she had to have learned from his mother. "How bad?"

"Bad enough." Nick turned to properly face her. "How about a deal, okay? No more interrogations on either side until we're done eating. Deal?"

Libby cracked a smile, this time a genuine one. "Deal," she said.

"Okay. Won't be long."

It was only after an abbreviated shower and shave, as he was pulling out a rust-coloured shirt from his closet to wear for the night ahead, that Nick remembered the oddness of the dream that had woken him. For a second, he was tempted to shove the shirt back in the closet and pick another instead. Then he shook his head and smiled wryly. It had just been a dream. Weird, true enough, but a dream all the same. It didn't mean anything, except possibly he needed a proper vacation and with his niece now on the scene, it was definitely not something to be worrying about. He pulled the shirt on and headed out of his bedroom.

Time for breakfast and answers. Preferably in that order.

* * *

"You're in early," called the waitress as Nick led Libby into the diner that took up the corner lot on his block.

Nick smiled, more at the way Libby's eyes widened than at the waitress' words. "Got stuff to do tonight, Angie. You know how it is."

Angie smiled in return. "I'll bring the coffee on over - do you want your usual?"

"Better make it two usuals," he answered, leading Libby to the small corner booth that gave him a view of the whole room without leaving his back vulnerable to a sneak attack. "Unless you're not hungry, Libby?"

"What's your usual?" Libby asked, her eyes still wide with surprise and confusion.

"A stack of pancakes with eggs and bacon on the side," said Angie. "And as much coffee as I can supply!"

"Sounds good," Libby admitted. "But isn't it kinda late for breakfast?"

Angie simply grinned at the question and deposited the coffee pot and two cups on the table. "Two usuals, coming up."

Nick nodded thanks and then waited until Angie had disappeared out of earshot before saying, "Sorry, Libby. As far as my body's concerned, it is breakfast time."

"Huh?"

Nick shook his head and smiled ruefully. "I work graveyard shift."

"O-oh." Libby winced. "I didn't-- She said this was early, I didn't wake you up, did I?"

He shook his head again. "Like I said to Angie, there's stuff I need to do before I start work. Like buy some groceries."

"Is that why you're, we're, eating out?"

Nick chuckled at that. "Didn't we do a deal about no more interrogations until we've eaten?"

Libby ducked her head in embarrassment. "Sorry, uncle Nicky."

"It's okay." He poured out a cup of coffee and then gestured with the pot. "You want some?"

"No thanks." Libby was still studying her hands. "Uncle Nicky, why did you leave Texas?"

It was on the tip of Nick's tongue to repeat his line about interrogations, but the set of Libby's shoulders made him rein in the impulse. "Whole bunch of reasons. Some of 'em good. Some of 'em not so good."

"Like what?"

"I guess," said Nick as Angie brought over the two plates of food, "the biggest reason was that I wanted to make my own reputation, not hide behind Cisco or your dad. Hard to do your own thing when all anyone ever says to you is 'You Bill Stokes' kid?' or 'So why didn't you go to law school like your brother?'"

"Mom says you ran away."

"She would." Nick rolled his eyes. Diane had never understood why he didn't want to coast through life on family reputation alone. As far as she was concerned, reputation was everything and if you didn't have your own, grabbing on to someone else's was just fine.

"Did you?"

Nick swallowed a forkful of eggs. "Did I what?"

"Run away," said Libby. "All seemed to happen kinda fast to me."

"You were eight; it probably seemed faster to you than it really was."

She pinned in place with that wall-eyed stare. "Did you?"

Nick dropped his fork back onto the plate and shook his head. "I didn't run. Not exactly. More like I was shoved."

"How come?"

"New deal," said Nick. "You eat, I'll talk."

Libby looked up, startled. "Huh?"

Nick just gestured to her plate. "Eat. I don't know how you got here---"

"Amtrak."

"---but I'm guessing you haven't really eaten since you left Dallas. So eat." He shook his head. "At least you didn't hitch-hike."

Libby gave him that stare again. "I'm not that dumb." She picked up her knife and fork and began eating.

Nick watched for a moment then, satisfied she was going to continue, he said, "I'm not getting into the whole story because it's too long, too complicated and some of it you're still too young to hear about."

"I'm almost seventeen!"

"And still too young," he answered firmly.

Libby glared but subsided and went back to eating.

Nick picked up his fork again but his appetite was long gone. "There was a huge, high profile drugs case that went bad because someone fouled up their lab procedures. It turned into a huge mess of finger-pointing and blame-sharing, and then I found out that the lead investigator on the case was...involved with one of the suspects. Then it got real messy and real ugly and even though I hadn't done anything wrong, I knew I couldn't keep on working there. The job here came up and I figured it was pretty much the perfect solution all round. Got me out of a hot place and to somewhere where I could just be me."

Libby speared a piece of bacon with her fork and stared at it for a few moments. "Do you miss home?"

"Sometimes. Some things. But if it gets too bad, I can always come home for a visit."

"You don't miss it that much, then," said Libby shrewdly. "You've only been home twice since you came here."

As that was something that he couldn't dispute, Nick simply smiled and said, "So that's why I 'ran away', if you want to call it that. Now let's hear about your reasons for escaping Texas."

For a moment, as Libby's face darkened, Nick wondered if the girl was simply going to clam up. "I don't want to tell you."

"If you'd just wanted to get away from your mom for a while, you could have phoned me, or Anna, and actually arranged a trip without scaring your parents and your grandparents halfway to an early grave."

Libby had the grace to look sheepish, but she remained silent and Nick could see real fear in her expression.

Was she scared of him or of what had happened? Knowing Libby, whatever had happened had to be serious. She wasn't a teenage drama queen and, though her relationship with her mother was explosive, the girl wouldn't have run away over a simple yelling match. Grissom would probably tell him he was trying to interpret the evidence before it was all assembled, but there were only a few things that would terrify someone into silence and none of them were things he wanted to imagine happening to his niece. "Just begin at the beginning," he said softly.

"I don't know when that was," Libby admitted.

"Then start from arguing with your mom and work back."

"We were arguing about school. I-- I got into a fight on Friday." Her head dipped in shame. "The principal suspended me for a month."

"What was the fight about?"

"The boys were-- were saying things about me."

"Saying things?"

The curtain of hair was back. "They called me a slut."

Another piece of the puzzle dropped into place. "Why would they do that?"

"Because they're jocks?"

Despite himself, Nick huffed a small laugh. "Jocks aren't all bad, you know?"

"These guys are."

"How much damage did you do?"

"Two broken noses and a lot of bruises." Libby sounded oddly proud of this. "And I'd do it again."

"Don't doubt it."

Silence fell for a few moments as Nick poured out a fresh cup of coffee. He was now fairly sure he could guess what had happened. Someone, probably one of the jocks Libby had attacked, had done something to Libby a month earlier. Whether the something had gone the whole way into rape or whether it had 'just' been a case of assault probably didn't make much difference as far as Libby was concerned. Either was bad enough. He could continue the interrogation and get to the bottom of what had happened, but maybe it would be better to let Libby admit to the rest at her own speed. The last thing he wanted to do was make her feel as if she was under attack from him too, and they had time. Maybe a couple of days of relative peace and quiet would give her the confidence she needed.

"All right. You want to tell me more, you just let me know," he said gently. "But for right now, knowing your mom and with what you've just said, I can see why you wanted to get away."

Libby looked up. "You're not mad?"

Nick smiled. "Naw. Might have been better if you'd called ahead first, but..." He trailed off and shrugged. "If you're done, guess we'd better make a move."

"Groceries, right?"

"And a few other things." Nick pushed to his feet. "C'mon; you might even get to see a couple of Vegas' hotspots while we're out."

* * *

"Isn't she a little young for you?"

Nick winced as he led Libby into the lab complex. Out of all the people he was likely to meet when he first got in, Hodges headed the list of 'least desirable'. "Not that it's any of your business, but this is Libby Stokes - one of my nieces - and if I hear you've bothered her beyond this, I'll take you down to ballistics and suggest Bobby use you for target practice."

Hodges merely sneered. "Touchy."

Nick rolled his eyes as the technician walked away.

"Who was that?" Libby asked, curious.

"Hodges. Decent lab rat, lousy human being. This way," Nick added, directing her into the break room which was mercifully empty. "Help yourself to coffee if you want it, or there's water in the fridge. Anyone bothers you, just tell them you're with me."

"Where are you going?"

"I need to go speak to my supervisor. Need to figure out what I'm-- we're gonna do for the rest of the week. I'm figuring you don't want to hang out here every night."

"I could stay at your place," said Libby.

"Not alone."

"I'm sixteen."

Nick just shook his head. "It's not up for debate."

She uttered the sort of snort that only a teenage girl could manage and dropped gracelessly onto the break room couch.

Nick sighed. "Won't be long."

He turned to head out of the break room only to find Catherine entering. "Nick, we need to talk."

"Yeah, actually I was just coming to find you - see, I've got--"

"It's about a case that Days have handed off to us."

"--a bit of a...what did you say?" Nick blinked. "Are Days swamped?"

"No."

"Then since when do Days hand off cases to us?"

"Since you," said Catherine slapping the file she was holding at his stomach, "were a CSI 1 on the matching crime."

"I what?" Nick made a grab for the file before it spilled over the floor. "Could we, maybe, start this conversation again?"

"Sure - hey, who's the visitor?"

Nick groaned. Looking round, he realised that Libby had stood up again and was now watching with interest. "Catherine, Libby Stokes. Libby, Catherine Willows."

"Libby. Stokes."

Nick didn't even need to look in Catherine's direction to know she was rapidly adding one and one together and coming up with an answer somewhere in the millions. He looked anyway and realised that Catherine looked completely stunned. "Catherine it's really not where you're going with this. She's my brother's daughter."

"Oh."

Libby snickered.

Nick rounded on her, finger raised. "Don't say a word."

She held her hands up. "Not saying anything. Sitting down. Pretend I'm not here."

Nick wished he was standing a little closer to a wall. At least then he could bang his head against it - it wouldn't help but it might at least make him feel better. Turning back to a now embarrassed Catherine, he said, "Your office?"

"Sure."

Nothing more was said until they were both in seated in the tiny broom closet that doubled as Catherine's office with the door firmly shut against casual eavesdroppers. Only then did Catherine say, "If you were going to have family visit, why didn't you book some vacation time?"

"Because I didn't know I was going to be having family visit," said Nick. He set the file down on the desk and rubbed his face tiredly. "She showed up on my doorstep this afternoon. Skipped outta Dallas without telling anyone where she was going."

Catherine winced. "Sounds like something Lindsey would do if she had somewhere she thought she could run to."

"Yeah, well. It's not something Libby would normally do which, considering her mom is as neurotic as all get out, is kinda surprising."

"Then what's she doing here?"

Nick rubbed his face again. "She needed a break. Look," he continued tiredly, "I don't want to get into it because I'm not totally sure yet, but something happened. Libby's a laid back kid yet she got herself suspended from school for handing two jocks their asses."

"You think that 'something' was serious."

"She wouldn't be here if it wasn't."

"How serious?"

"That's the part I don't know yet." Nick shrugged. "She's spooked and skittish - just getting the suspension out of her was tricky."

Catherine winced again. "Well, she's okay to be here tonight. You have paperwork to do and Grissom isn't back from the Body Farm until tomorrow. You'll need to figure something else out for the rest of the week, though."

"I'm open to suggestions."

Catherine smiled faintly. "If I have any, I'll let you know." She reached out and tapped the file on the desk. "In the mean time, you've got the McBride case to write up and I need you to go over this case from Days."

Ignoring the comment about the McBride case, which he'd been expecting to write up, Nick focused on the file. "You said something about it being mine from when I was a CSI 1; I wasn't in Vegas then. I was back home in Dallas."

"Right. The case is from Dallas."

Once again Nick was seized with the urge to pound his head against something hard. "Why are Days investigating a case from Dallas that has to be almost as old as Libby?"

"Days aren't. Short form is: they had a DB wash up at Lake Mead a couple of days ago. Three shots to the chest from three different guns. IBIS matched two of the bullets to a case you worked on back in Dallas."

Nick felt a chill wrap itself around his spine. The description of the body rang alarm bells in his mind. The first image that came to him was of the weird dream that had woken him just before Libby's arrival. The next was of the former Day Shift supervisor at the Dallas lab and a whole string of dead bodies and drug deals across the Dallas metro area. "Have you asked Dallas for the files?"

"Should be arriving sometime shortly. The Day Shift supervisor put in the request before she left and that was when your name came up so..." Catherine frowned. "Nicky? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Nick mustered a tight smile. "I haven't - yet. But I think I'm going to." He picked up the file. "Guess I'd better get to work."

* * *

_To be continued..._


	3. Between The Cracks

Of the characters only Libby and a few assorted goons, thugs and bad guys are my invention. The rest belong to CBS and people who are definitely not me; I'm just borrowing them for a little while. No harm, no foul.

Set in season 6, a day or so after the end of Gum Drops

With many, MANY thank yous to procrastin8or951 for the help and beta'ing

And thank you also to everyone who's read and reviewed and enjoyed - and look out for chapter 3 in roughly a week's time!

* * *

Between The Cracks

Libby idly flicked through one of the abandoned magazines in the break room. She felt like a complete idiot on so many levels. When she'd first thought of coming here she'd been so sure it was the right thing to do. Get out of Dallas, away from her mother and to someone who'd always been around for her to talk to, even as far back as when she was five and had lost her favourite Barbie doll. Someone she'd be able to tell the whole story to who wouldn't immediately start making judgements, leaping to conclusions, or, worse, start ordering her around like she was still a child.

And he'd given her the chance. Given her plenty of chances to do it and the best she could manage was the fight at school.

"Some tough Stokes I am," she muttered, glaring at the issue of National Geographic she'd picked up.

Members of the Stokes Family were supposed to be tough. 'Cowboy up,' her dad used to say. They weren't supposed to skirt the truth, skip the story, run away or get suspended from school for fighting.

Maybe she'd been adopted.

"Are you waiting for someone?"

Libby's head jerked upwards in surprise. She realised that she was now being scrutinised by a severe-faced lady who had to be the same sort of age as her uncle. Presumably, Libby guessed, this was one of his coworkers. "Uh, only my uncle," she answered.

"Uncle, huh?" The lady smiled and her expression lightened into something more friendly. "Why didn't Nick arrange some vacation time instead of dragging you to the lab?"

"He, uh, didn't exactly know," Libby admitted.

"Ohh." The lady nodded in a knowing fashion. "I see." She crossed to the break room fridge and extracted a bottle of water. "Do you want a drink while you're waiting?"

"Uh, no - I'm fine. Thank you." Libby hesitated for a moment. "How did you know who my uncle was?"

The lady chuckled. "There's only one other Texan around here so it was a pretty easy guess."

Libby immediately felt stupid. "Oh."

"I'm Sara, by the way," the lady continued. "Are you Libby or Jo?"

"Libby." Now she felt even more stupid. Of course her uncle had talked about family back home. Why wouldn't he have done?

"Well it's nice to meet you." The lady, Sara, smiled again. "Do you want me to find Nick?"

Convulsively, Libby shook her head. "He went to have a meeting with, uh, Catherine?" she finished hesitantly. "I think."

But the answer was rendered moot as her uncle now appeared in the break room doorway, clutching a manila file and looking several shades paler than he had done earlier. Was he in trouble for her being here? Before Libby could formulate a question, Sara said, "You OK, Nick?"

"Fine."

"You don't look fine."

He gestured to the file. "I have Days' grunt work to do."

"Ah." Sara was now frowning. "How come?"

"It's an old case of mine," Nick answered. "Apparently. From Dallas. Can't say I remember it but..." He shrugged.

There was a lie somewhere in that statement, Libby realised. Why would her uncle lie? What was he lying about?

"There's also the McBride case write up," he was continuing. "Since I can't start the Days' stuff until the courier get here, might as well be doing something useful."

Now Libby could see a challenge in Nick's expression, as if he was expecting Sara to contradict him. What was that all about?

"I haven't talked to Catherine yet," was all Sara said.

"And Grissom?"

"I haven't talked to him, either."

"But you're going to."

"Nick, I have to."

There was now a wry smile on his face. "I know. Catherine's in her office right now, if you want to get it over with. Libby?"

Libby started. "Me?"

"C'mon." Nick gestured with the file. "I have work to do and since I'm gonna be tied to the lab tonight, you might as well keep me company."

"Uh, Nick?" Sara shook her head. "She shouldn't be in the lab. Ecklie will kill you."

"Ecklie can bite me," Nick retorted.

Sara snickered. "Your funeral." She headed out of the break room.

"Libby?"

Libby pushed to her feet. "What am I going to do while you're doing whatever it is you're doing?"

"You still read?"

Libby eyed her uncle. "Do fish swim?"

That provoked a smile. "Then reading seems like a good bet."

"You have a book stash?"

"Try the box on the counter."

Libby looked around the room and spotted the box next to the microwave. Crossing the room she said, "So why do you have a book stash here?"

"Gotta do something in your down time - and you can't play Madden every night."

"I guess." Libby peered into the box. "Hey; 'Lord of the Rings'!" She lifted the book out. "Yours?"

"Greg's, but he'll share." Nick grinned. "C'mon; let's get going."

Libby followed Nick out of the break room and into the maze of glass walls and labs that she'd already glimpsed through the break room door. The whole place felt as though wherever you went you were always under the microscope. It gave her the creeps. Did her uncle actually work in one of these glassed-in boxes? How did he stand it?

"In here," Nick directed, cutting across her train of thought.

To Libby's immense relief, she realised she was being directed into a small office off to the side. It was a dingy space with only a single fluorescent strip to light it, but all the walls were solid affording the room - if it could be called that - a sense of cramped privacy. And it was cramped. Somehow they had managed to squeeze three desks into a room that was barely big enough for one and each desk groaned under the weight of a massive and outdated desktop computer.

"Your office?" she asked.

"Not specifically," Nick replied. "Only supervisors actually have their own offices. Us peons have to make do with a couple of glorified closets." He smiled and waved her towards a stool standing in the corner. "Take a seat." He flipped the power switch of the nearest PC and slid into the seat. "Make yourself comfortable. We're gonna be here for a while."

Libby did as she was told, but eyed the computer curiously. "Isn't that a little--"

"Old? Slow? Antiquated?" Nick grinned.

"Guess I thought it'd be more high-tech."

"The labs are," said Nick. "And the other closet has computers from this side of the millennium. It's just the other one has a huge window wall so people know you're in there and they figure they can come in and bug the crap out of you. Besides," he added, "you don't need a whole lot of memory to run a word processor."

Libby grinned. "Gotcha."

She settled against the wall and began to read, careful not to dislodge the bookmark that she guessed the book's owner had left in place. A few moments later, she became distantly aware of the sound of typing. She smiled. It didn't sound as if her uncle had got any better at typing since the last time she'd watched him work, if the way the backspace key kept being thumped was anything to go by. For a moment, she debated calling him on it. Then she remembered that she wasn't really supposed to be here at all and decided that keeping as quiet and invisible as possible would be the best option.

Time passed. At some point, Libby thought she heard the sound of a printer whirring, but she didn't bother to look up to confirm it. She did look up, briefly, when she heard Nick's chair creak, but only to confirm she didn't have to move. On seeing that he wasn't going anywhere - was, in fact, studying the contents of the manila file - she returned to the book and continued to read, but she'd only got another paragraph further when she heard someone knock on the open office door.

Looking up, her first impression of the visitor was that he couldn't possibly be one of her uncle's colleagues - he looked far too young and he seemed to lack the serious edge that both her uncle and Sara had. That impression was compounded by his first words: "Book thief!" He was trying to sound annoyed but the corners of his mouth kept twitching.

Libby wasn't entirely sure how to respond. "Uh, sorry?" she offered.

He gave up the unequal struggle and smiled. "It's okay - Sara said you were hanging out at the lab tonight. I'm Greg, by the way."

"You're also," said Nick not looking up from his file, "a pain in my rear."

Greg mimed being shot in the chest. Libby giggled. "Just for that, I won't tell you there's fresh coffee in the break room and doughnuts."

Libby watched as her uncle looked up. "Why are there doughnuts in the break room?"

"Warrick brought them," said Greg. "But I didn't tell you they were there, so all the more for me!"

Nick rolled his eyes. "Was there something you actually wanted? Or did you just come along here to torment me?"

"Tormenting has its possibilities, but no. Catherine sent me to find you, actually. She said something about the courier bringing the files you wanted."

"I didn't want them, I've just got stuck with them."

To judge by the way Greg's expression contorted into confusion, the remark had made no more sense to him than it did to Libby. "Nick?"

Nick just shook his head. "It's a long story, Greggo." He rolled his chair backwards and stood up. "Guess I'd better go claim them. Libby, do you want a doughnut or a cup of coffee?"

"I'm fine, thanks," Libby answered.

"If you're sure." He started for the door then presumably realised that Greg hadn't moved. "Was there something else, Greg?"

"Well, if you're not too busy reading case files you don't want, I have a couple of hair samples I could use some help with."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, they're from a 406 I'm working on. I'd kick them to trace but Hodges is backed up because the Days trace guy's out with flu."

"You analyse hair?" said Libby, wrinkling her nose. "Gross."

"If you think that's gross--" Greg began, only to catch the glare Nick was giving him. "Never mind. Don't want to find myself in ballistics as the target. Shutting up now."

Libby giggled.

Nick rolled his eyes. "Libby, I'll be back in a minute with those other files. Greg, come find me in about half an hour and I'll take a look at the samples for you - can't do it any sooner than that. I need to check exactly what Dallas sent across first. If I need them to send anything else, I need to get the request in sooner rather than later."

Greg nodded. "Thanks, man."

Libby watched as they both departed and picked up the book again. Once again, however, she'd got no more than a paragraph further before she was interrupted again. This time, it was her uncle returning, carrying a records box presumably full of files. What surprised her was the fact that Sara was following him, also carrying a records box. Libby blinked.

"That's a lot of files," Libby observed.

"It was a big investigation," said Nick, dumping his box on one of the other desks.

"Apparently," said Sara dryly as she put her box down as well. "This big and you don't really remember it?"

"Eight years ago, Sar. Been a lot of stuff happen since then."

Libby blinked at the time scale. Eight years would put this right around the time her uncle left Dallas and hadn't he said it was some kind of big case that pushed him into finally leaving Texas?

"Right," said Sara with sarcasm. She clearly wasn't buying her uncle's explanation. "You want me to go bring the other box while you start refreshing your memory?"

"Please." He pulled a box cutter from his pocket and started cutting the tape securing the first box's lid.

Libby hesitated for a moment, knowing it was very much none of her business. "Uncle Nicky?"

"What is it, Libby?" he asked, repeating the effort on the second box.

"Is this the case you were talking about?"

He looked up. "What?"

"The reason you left Texas," Libby clarified. "Is this the one?"

Nick sighed. "Yeah."

Libby wasn't sure what, if anything, she could say in response. Then sparing her the need to reply, Sara returned, armed with a third box of files.

"Thanks, Sar," said Nick, lifting the first of the files out of the box.

"You know," Sara began, "the layout room's available - you'd have more room in there."

"And what happens if a case comes in? Last time I checked, case reviews don't take precedence over active cases." Nick shook his head. "Besides, working in here means I don't get interrupted every five minutes."

"Sara?"

The voice sounded from somewhere outside the office. "In here, Warrick," Sara answered.

A second later and a tall black man appeared in the doorway, a slip of paper clutched in his hand. "419 at the Palms, with Cavaliere." he said. Then he took in the boxes. "Esh - that's a lotta files."

"And they won't go through themselves," said Nick with a shrug. "You two had better not keep Cavaliere waiting."

"Maybe it's just as well you're not going out to this one," Sara offered.

Libby watched as her uncle smiled wryly. "Pretty sure PD arranges it that way."

Warrick snorted and shook his head. "C'mon; better leave the man to his files or else he'll still be here two days from now."

Nick flipped open the file he was holding. "It's called speed reading, 'Rick."

To Libby's eyes, Warrick looked dubious, but he made no further comment. Instead he departed, Sara close on his heels.

"Do you really have to read all these files?" Libby asked.

"Yeah." He rubbed a hand over his face. "And before I can get started on that, I need to get them into some sort of order. This one," and he shut the file he was holding, "comes from right in the middle of the damn case."

Libby winced. "Can I help?"

"I appreciate the offer, but no." He sighed. "Maybe Sara was right about the layout room." He dumped the file back into the open box. "Libby, you think you can find the break room again? You'd be better off not hanging on in here, just in case someone else wants the room."

"Sure." Libby slid off the stool and started towards the door, only to be halted as Catherine entered. To Libby's eyes, the older woman looked annoyed.

"Cath - what's up?" Apparently her uncle thought so too.

"Good news and bad news," Catherine answered. "The good news is, I've found you a solution for Libby so she doesn't have to be here all week."

Libby blinked. "Huh?"

"Which is?"

"Well," said Catherine acerbically, "that would be the bad news. I need a babysitter from seven through to one for the rest of this week."

"A babysitter?" Libby echoed.

"How come?" Nick asked.

"I'll spare you the family drama," said Catherine with a shake of her head. "The short form is that Lindsey was supposed to be staying with my sister this week; that's not going to happen now and my mom has plans every evening because she thought Lindsey was going to be at my sister's."

It was an explanation that meant nothing to Libby though, to judge from the way he winced, her uncle understood it completely. "So you were wondering if Libby could help out?"

"Pretty much," Catherine admitted.

"You'll have to ask her," said Nick, picking up one of the boxes. "I've got no objections."

Libby stared at him in stunned silence as he squeezed by Catherine and out of the door.

"You look surprised," said Catherine.

"He told me I couldn't stay at his place on my own, but I can babysit for you?" Libby shook his head. "That doesn't make sense."

"Actually, it kinda does. I live a lot closer to the lab so if there is any trouble, it's a lot easier to fix. And you wouldn't be alone the whole night. So how about it?" Catherine was continuing. "I have cable, I have internet; Lindsey's thirteen so she doesn't need much babysitting; I can pay you the going rate-- In fact," she added as Nick returned, presumably to grab the next box of files, "why don't you guys come over for dinner tomorrow evening Nick? Lindsey was complaining she hasn't seen much of you recently; either you or Warrick actually, but mostly you. Something about math homework?"

Nick hefted the next box and chuckled. "Summer school. She was having some trouble with quadratic equations. I just talked her through them is all." He started for the door. "Dinner sounds good, though. Libby? What do you think?"

"Uh, sure - why not?" Libby felt a little dazed by the whole conversation.

"Great!"

"I need to get on with this," said Nick gesturing with the box. "Why don't you two fix the details - whatever you come up with is fine by me." And he headed out of the room before Libby could say a word.

"Let's go to my office," Catherine suggested.

Still feeling dazed, Libby shrugged. "Sure."

This wasn't at all what she imagined would happen, but, as she followed Catherine through the lab to the older woman's office, Libby decided that babysitting wouldn't be so bad. Granted, it wasn't really a way to help her uncle out, but maybe helping his coworker would be almost as good - and it would, she reflected, beat the idea of trying to be invisible in a lab full of glass boxes.

* * *

Dumping the final box of files onto the layout table, Nick surveyed his evening's work. On the face of it, it was simple: sort the files into date order, go through them and pull out all the bits that would likely help with the John Doe that Dayshift had pulled out of Lake Mead. The problem was the overwhelming amount of data he was going to have to sift through. Not that Sara had really believed him, but he had forgotten the scope of the investigation. And then there was the question of what else Dallas had seen fit to send. Had they been thorough and included all the IAB stuff and what had followed that, or had they stuck to the files that directly related to the shootings? He half hoped for the latter, because that would involve fewer difficult explanations. At the same time, though, he knew that the shootings only told half the story.

"Well, it ain't gonna sort itself," he muttered, reaching out to lift the box lids. "Question is, where to start?"

A quick glance into the boxes gave him his answer. The third box only had a handful of files in. Beginning with that would at least let him feel like he'd made quick progress. Unfortunately, as he lifted out the top file, its contents spilled out across the table; a welter of photographs and pages. Whoever had last looked at the file clearly hadn't put it back together properly.

"Well that just figures," he muttered. "Like I didn't have enough work to do just reading the damn things, I gotta fix 'em too?"

With a shake of his head, he started to pull the loose sheets back together. At first, the words on the pages meant nothing. A case report without any context. There was no autopsy report, which did puzzle him; from what he remembered, there had been an awful lot of bodies, so a case file without an autopsy report struck him as odd. The crime scene sketch was even more confusing. Just an empty room, the sketch suggested. Nothing present save a chair, some rope, a pipe and blood - but not a pool of it; just spatter. Cast off. That didn't fit with any of his memories of the case. All the vics had been shot.

What the hell was this?

But the answer came to him a moment later as he flipped over one of the spilled photographs. It had been taken in an ER cubical and documented bruising on someone's arm. The swelling suggested the arm was probably broken. It could have been anyone's arm, but Nick knew it wasn't. This was the one part of the case he'd actively tried to forget. It was also the one part of the case that was seldom that far from his thoughts. Only the advent of Walter Gordon had been able to chase it from the rotation of regular nightmares.

This was his file.

His screw up.

That was why there was no autopsy report; there'd been no body. That was why he didn't recognise the sketch - he hadn't been the rookie drafting it.

Hastily he started scrabbling the rest of the pages back together, not caring that they were now out of sequence. The last thing he wanted was for someone to see any of this stuff and catch his name somewhere or see one of the more identifiable photos. Not until he was ready - or at least a little more prepared for it. Part of him was sorely tempted to just bury the whole file at the bottom of one of the boxes and not even mention the events it documented because he'd had enough of being the favourite topic of conversation in the lab, but that wouldn't work out. True, this part of the case had very little to do with the shootings, which was really all they were interested in, but it did say a great deal about the probable reasons why two out of the three shooters were still out there - and that was something that Grissom, at least, would want to know.

He also owed it to Shelley not to leave his friends with IAB's impressions of her - and if his file was here, that meant her file and all the IAB findings would be, too.

Nick groaned softly and reached for the last photo. He didn't need to see it. Didn't need to look because he was reasonably sure it was just going to be another of those ER photos. He flipped it over anyway, a morbid sense of curiosity taking control. It was another anonymous shot, showing a beaten and battered torso. There didn't seem to be a square inch of skin that wasn't marred by bruising and even knowing the outcome, Nick couldn't quite believe the photo had been documenting a still-breathing human being. He hadn't realised just how bad it had looked.

"That had to hurt."

Catherine's voice startled him from his thoughts. He hadn't heard her come into the layout room. Guiltily, he wondered how long she'd been there and how long he'd apparently been ignoring her.

"I thought this was a shooting, though," Catherine was continuing. "That looks like someone took a baseball bat to the ribcage."

"It is and it wasn't a bat," Nick replied, shuffling the photo into the file and closing it. "It was a scaffold pipe."

"I suppose that makes all the difference," said Catherine dryly. "What does this have to do with the shooting?"

"It's shootings. Plural. Big case. The investigation ran for more than a year and along the way, there were other people who got caught up in it. People who didn't get shot."

"That level of damage, I'd imagine whoever that was probably wished he had been shot."

Nick smiled faintly. "I think his family was kinda glad he wasn't; a couple of weeks in hospital and he got to go home."

Now Catherine looked disturbed. "Someone survived that?"

"Uh-huh."

"What people do to one another." She shook her head. "Anyway. I was wondering if you needed a hand with this. I don't think the Days supervisor thought there were going to be this many files."

Nick snorted. "No. Don't suppose she did. Come for a gun from an eight or nine year old shooting in Dallas, stay for the drug trafficking, maiming and corruption."

"You do remember the case."

It was a statement, but one Nick felt compelled to answer: "I do now."

Catherine looked dubious. "Right."

"It was eight years ago when everything wrapped up. It was probably nearer ten years ago when the investigation first started. I don't know about you, but I've been involved with a lot of cases since then. I don't think any of them were as long as this was, but plenty have been just as big. And I was just a CSI 1 on this, so it wasn't even really my case."

She still looked dubious, but all she said was, "So could you use a hand?"

"Grissom didn't leave you snowed with paperwork, then?"

Catherine snorted. "Nicky, you've been out of here a week. Not even Grissom leaves a paperwork mountain that big."

"If you're really that bored." Nick shoved one of the boxes across the table in her direction. "Here. Dig in."

"And do what?"

It was Nick's turn to snort. "Figure out what the hell the records clerks in Dallas have been smoking? Far as I can tell, they've sent every file they have that's even half way related to this case, but they've just dumped them into boxes any old how. This one," he added, tapping the file the photograph had come from, "is from way, way into the investigation - it's dated 'most two months before I left Dallas and came here. Next one in the box," and he pulled the next file out, "is a year older. One after that fits somewhere between the two."

"It was a rush job," Catherine suggested.

"And if the files are stored in order, even a rush job wouldn't be this bad."

They worked together in silence for a while, gradually emptying the boxes of files and slowly shuffling them into date order. Opting to keep the incriminating file under his own control, Nick started with the newest files, sending the older ones to Catherine. In turn, she sent the ones that came toward the end of the case across to him. It seemed to be working reasonably well, too, until Catherine suddenly said, "Y'know, you never say much about working in Dallas."

"Not much to say. It's not as busy as this place; the cases sure didn't get as weird as they do round here. Kind of average, I guess."

"But you must have had friends there, right?"

"A few. Hey, is that the last file?" Nick asked, hoping to try and deflect Catherine's line of questions.

"Just got a couple more, and don't change the subject," she retorted, sliding one of the two files across to him.

"It's a boring subject," he shot back. "And if we're done sorting the files, we - or I - need to get on with figuring out what's gonna be relevant and what's just side issues."

"Don't want to talk about it, huh?"

"Nothing to talk about." Nick shook his head. "Hell, at least half the time I worked there I was a lab rat anyway."

"And you don't think the adventures of Nick Stokes, Ace Lab Rat, are worth sharing?" Greg asked from the layout room doorway.

Nick snorted. "Unless you really want to hear about getting stiffed with sorting lint from thirty vacuums, or having to process five hundred or so different cat hair samples?"

"Thirty vacuums?" Catherine winced. "Someone sure didn't like you too much."

"More like they thought it was funny to give the Judge's son all the shit." Nick shrugged. "Greggo, you still need me to look at those hair samples?"

"I already know it's not cat hair, if that makes it any better," Greg offered.

"Nah, it's cool."

At that moment, Catherine's pager began bleeping. With an annoyed frown, she peered at the message. "It's Brass; we have another 419. Greg, go grab your kit, we'll take it."

"Guess that means I'm sticking with the files, then," said Nick.

"Sorry." Catherine didn't sound the slightest bit apologetic as she led Greg out of the layout room.

"The hairs are on the scope, if you do get a chance to look," Greg called over his shoulder.

Nick smiled and shook his head. "Will do." He looked back at the two stacks of files he and Catherine had put together and sighed. "Gonna be a long night."

* * *

_To be continued..._


	4. And Falling Down

Of the characters only Libby and a few assorted goons, thugs and bad guys are my invention. The rest belong to CBS and people who are definitely not me; I'm just borrowing them for a little while. No harm, no foul.

Set in season 6, a day or so after the end of Gum Drops

With many, MANY thank yous to procrastin8or951 for the help and beta'ing

And thank you also to everyone who's read and reviewed and enjoyed - I'm just sorry that updates are currently taking me so long.

* * *

And Falling Down

Nick was beginning to get a cramp. As much room as the layout table offered for spreading out papers and files, it was a lousy place to try and write up notes for any length of time - and he had a feeling he'd been at the task for much longer than he really wanted to think about. The only break he'd taken had been to look at Greg's 'hair' samples - insulation fibres as it turned out - and that had been...

Nick frowned. Just how long ago had that been? He glanced at his watch and realised it was showing five am. Apparently, he hadn't moved from the layout room in nearly four hours. No wonder a cramp was setting in. Remarkably, it also meant that no one had interrupted him in that time. Did that mean the others had yet to return from their crime scenes? He felt a flash of guilt at that idea. The shift was already short handed with Grissom out; it didn't need to be made worse by him being sucked up in a case review. A look around the lab, however, settled that. He could see Warrick talking with Mandy in the print lab, while Catherine and Greg were both heading purposefully in the direction of either ballistics or the garage. Given both were wearing coveralls, he suspected the garage.

He slowly straightened up and winced as his back give a series of pops. He really, really should have moved sooner.

"Hey."

Easing round, Nick saw Sara in the doorway. "Hey."

"You weren't kidding when you said speed reading," she commented, gesturing to the tottering stack of files Nick had already gone through.

He smiled faintly. "How was your DB?"

"Trick roll gone bad," Sara replied. "We already have the suspect in custody, just need to get the evidence tied together."

"And Cavaliere isn't over here breathing fire at you for taking your time?" Nick shook his head in disbelief.

"You just bring out the worst in him."

"The feeling's mutual."

Sara smiled. "Anyway. I was wondering if you could use a hand with this stuff, or at least, if you needed a break."

"A break's good, but don't worry about tackling any of this. I've got it covered." Nick got to his feet and stretched. "Done all the easy stuff, anyway. What's left is...complicated."

"Easy stuff?"

For answer, Nick took the top file off the stack he'd dealt with and held it out. "See for yourself."

Sara took the file and opened it. "Single DB, three shots to the chest, Jane Doe, drug mule." She looked up. "Not much of a case file."

"There wasn't much to go on."

"They're all like this?"

Nick chuckled without much humour behind it. "Some are. I haven't counted exactly how many yet. They're the ones that match to the DB that Days pulled out of Lake Mead."

"Then what's the rest of it?" Sara asked, handing the file back.

"Other crimes where one or more of the guns were used. Mostly armed robberies. Some street crime too. There's also a couple of drug busts linked in and there's a hit and run in there as well - I do remember that one; vic was a veteran who saved the life of a little girl. The driver turned out to be one of the shooters."

Sara stared. "Is there anything this case doesn't cover?"

Nick shrugged. "No trick rolls, far as I've found." He started towards the door. "How fresh is the coffee in the break room?"

"I think Greg put a fresh pot on when he got back about an hour ago," Sara replied.

"Sounds good to me."

Rolling his wrists to try and relieve writer's cramp, Nick headed into the break room in search of the coffee Sara had mentioned. What he ought to do was actually take a proper break and go out for some food, but he wasn't sure he wanted to take the time. While he'd probably dealt with the majority of the files now, what was left could easily take him right up to clocking out time. It was only as he entered the break room and saw Libby curled up in the corner of the couch, her nose still buried deeply in Greg's book, that he remembered it wasn't just himself he was supposed to be looking out for.

"Hey, Libby?" he called, trying to squash the stab of guilt he felt at not checking on her sooner.

She looked up. "Hey."

"You feel like catching some food?"

Libby lowered the book. "What time is it?"

"Five in the morning."

"What would it be? Early breakfast?"

Nick offered a lopsided smile. "Late lunch," he replied. "How 'bout it?"

Stiffly, Libby uncurled from the couch. "What if all I want is some French toast?"

Nick grinned as he held out a hand to help her up from the couch. "If that's what you want, we can get some. There's a diner just down the block from here - figured we'd go there, since it's close and the food's good."

* * *

Sara watched as both Nick and Libby left the break room, heading towards the exit. Presumably, she judged, Nick was actually going to take a proper break rather than the five minute coffee break he'd implied when talking to her. That was definitely no bad thing - God knew there were plenty of shifts where you didn't get the luxury of even a five minute coffee break, so voluntarily missing a meal when the shift was as quiet as this one had been was always a stupid move. Unfortunately, judging by the size the files he still had to go through, it had probably also consigned him to pulling overtime. She eyed the files for a few moments, then slid into his seat. He might have said he had it covered, but it couldn't hurt for her to at least make a start on summarising the next file. Opening the file, she found a fresh page in the notepad Nick had been using and began taking notes about the file's contents.

Initially, she didn't see what on earth the file had to do with what Nick had described. The first set of pages described a standard house search - she wasn't even clear on why the house was being searched - and she was almost tempted to skip over them altogether until a phrase leapt out at her: _CSI Stokes located the gun._

Sara blinked and scanned back until she found the beginning of the paragraph.

_CSIs Stokes and Drew were assigned to searching the living room for anything that could further connect the suspect to the rash of John and Jane Doe bodies. It was CSI Stokes who located the gun, tucked beneath the cushions of the suspect's couch. CSI Stokes made the weapon safe and then logged it in as evidence. The gun was a Glock 17. Ballistic tests subsequently proved that it was one of the three guns that had been used on the victims._

Sara smirked. Why wasn't she surprised that Nick had been the one to find such a key piece of evidence? He had that knack of being in the right place at the right time. Her amusement faded as she realised that he also had the unenviable talent of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, too.

Was that what had happened here? Was that why he was being so cagey about the case?

Hurriedly, Sara continued to read the search report, scanning for signs of anything bad happening. When she found nothing out of place, she moved on to the next section of the file. That proved to be an autopsy report of a body found in a car trunk which contained nothing out of the ordinary. Beyond that was a car search report which did feature Nick's name again, but it was a search conducted in the lab garage so barring accidents, nothing should have happened there and, sure enough, the car search yielded nothing suspicious either.

It was only when she realised she'd reached the end of the file that she remembered she was supposed to be taking notes about the file's contents. Sheepishly Sara turned back to the start of the house search. While it was tempting to skip ahead and check the other remaining files, just to be sure nothing bad had happened, it made more sense to curb her curiosity and make the notes. At least that way she could say she'd been helping rather than prying.

With that thought uppermost in her mind, she set to work methodically making notes on the file's contents and had soon lost herself in the work. It wasn't until a voice said, "Thought I said I had it covered," that she realised just how deeply into the files she'd got, or how much time had passed.

Sitting up and looking round, Sara saw Nick leaning in the doorway, an odd expression on his face. "I just thought it would help," she said, even as she scrabbled together the couple of files she'd finished with.

Nick smiled. "It does; thank you." He pushed away from the doorway and entered the room. "You done with that one?" And he gestured to the file she had open in front of her.

Sara took a moment to check. "About half way through. Guess I'm starting to see why you said the rest was complicated. I mean, I thought we'd done some thorough investigations on people but this file on Roberto Mendosa is..." She trailed off and shook her head.

That got a lopsided smile. "Him I really do remember - mostly because he'd been so untouchable pretty much the entire time I worked in Dallas. We, uh, we might have been a little over enthusiastic when we finally did get a warrant."

Sara pressed her lips together in an effort not to giggle. "I see."

"You, uh, want to carry on?" he asked. "Or you about ready to climb the walls in boredom?"

"It's not that bad," Sara objected. "It's actually kinda interesting - you don't say much about Dallas."

"You don't say much about San Francisco," Nick pointed out. "And if you really want to carry on, be my guest - just hand me the last two files. That way we might both get out of here on time."

Sara slid the two files across the table. "Boring subject."

"So was Dallas."

Sara glanced down at the file she'd been working on. Boring was about the last word she'd ever use to describe it. "Don't wanna talk about it, huh?"

"Not really."

She looked up again, but he'd already hunched over the two files she'd handed over. Clearly, as far as he was concerned, the conversation was over. Sara rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to the file she was reviewing. As much as she was tempted to try and pursue the conversation, he did have a point about one thing: if they didn't get on with the review, they would end up pulling overtime.

* * *

Catherine couldn't help but smirk as she stood in the layout room doorway. On one side of the table sat Sara, her head propped on her left hand while her right hand scribbled away, making notes on the file she was staring at. On the other side of the table sat Nick, in a perfect mirror image of Sara's pose. They even seemed to be flipping pages in time with one another. It was, frankly, amusing.

And, to judge by the stack of files in the middle of the table, it was also pretty effective.

Catherine cleared her throat, drawing startled yelps from both. "You two look like you're having way too much fun here," she said.

Nick snorted. "You have a warped idea of fun."

"What time is it?" Sara asked, stretching.

"Almost end of shift," said Catherine. "Are you about finished or do you need to pick this up again later? Because," she added, "there is no way Ecklie will pay out for overtime on this."

"I'm done," said Nick. "Sar?"

"I'm finished - but I do have a question."

"Only one?" asked Nick looking wryly amused.

Sara rolled her eyes and tapped the file. "All this evidence and this case is labelled a cold file?"

Catherine watched as Nick shifted on his stool. "It's a long story, Sar," he said. "And I'm gonna have to tell it tonight - least, I'm pretty sure Grissom's gonna want to hear it - so if you don't mind, I'd like to only go over the whole thing once. 'Kay?"

"Something happened," said Sara, frowning.

"It was a long investigation. A lot of 'somethings' happened."

Catherine cleared her throat again. "Nicky, if there's something in these files you don't want us to know about, it might work better if you didn't immediately start going evasive on us."

"The case makes the whole Dallas lab look bad," said Nick shortly. "I'm not exactly big on advertising that. And no, I know I don't talk about Dallas much - this would be why."

Catherine held her hands up in surrender. "Okay - only going over it once is fine by me." Sara looked as if she wanted to argue the point, but Catherine gave her no chance, instead continuing, "Anyway, I stopped by to say that if you are done, you might as well clock out and go home, both of you. Warrick's already gone and Greg and I are stalled until Hodges gets through the trace backlog. Plus, Nick, you're down for on call, so you should probably make sure Libby's home before anyone takes advantage of that."

"Lucky me." Nick started to box up the files. "Though, if that's the case, Sar, you want to give me your notes? That way I can pull everything together before we get in tonight. Ecklie can't accuse me of doing overtime if I'm already on call."

"If you think you can read them," said Sara standing up. "Catherine can I talk to you for a second?"

Somehow, Catherine had been expecting that. "Sure. See you this evening, Nick."

It said a great deal for how much things had changed between them since the mail order brides fiasco that Sara waited until they were safely inside Catherine's office before she said, "Why are you letting him get away with this?"

Catherine gave her an amused look. "Because if there's one thing the last six months has taught me, it's to not push Nick into a corner about things he doesn't want to talk about. Especially if he's already tabled a time when he will talk about it."

"And you don't think he's acting strangely?"

"I didn't say that," said Catherine. She sighed. "I think you're right, but I don't think we're going to get anything out of him until he's ready. And after everything that's happened, I think we can cut him a little slack on that score."

"Assuming it doesn't interfere with the case."

Catherine smiled wryly. "Well we'll know the answer to that tonight."

* * *

Nick wasn't entirely surprised to see Libby fall asleep before they'd even left the crime lab's parking lot. It had been a long night for both of them, and he reasoned they'd probably both had more entertaining nights. The difference was that he was used to the hours while she probably hadn't had any decent sleep since she'd left Dallas. He shook his head. Maybe he should be more surprised that she hadn't ended up dozing in the break room.

Unfortunately, with Libby asleep in the passenger seat, he didn't feel he could risk turning on the radio and without that distraction, his thoughts inevitably returned to the case review and the new Dayshift case file. With just the one body, it was hard to tell just how linked it was to what had happened in Dallas, but the odds of it being utterly unrelated were vanishingly slim. The Dayshift file matched nearly word for word with the nine year old files from Dallas.

Was it Roberto Mendosa, finally reappearing from the woodwork? It was the most likely explanation - except that it made absolutely no sense. Why here? Why now? Nick shook his head. Mendosa was unlikely. But if it wasn't Mendosa, who else would be behind it?

It could be dumb luck, of course. The Mendosa case had been big news and two of the guns had never been recovered. All it would take is someone from Dallas with a knowledge of the case, possession of the two guns and a desire to recreate a case that had investigators chasing their tails for nearly a year before they finally caught a break. Again Nick shook his head. A copycat was even more unlikely than Mendosa. Sure, it had been a big case, but it was also eight years old. Copycats copied recent or truly notorious crimes, and the Mendosa case was neither.

That just left one viable option. "Chris Johns," he muttered, making a right onto his street. "And that would make this whole thing personal."

He snorted at the idea even as he parked in front of his house. He sounded paranoid even to his own ears; what the hell would Grissom and the rest of the team make of that theory?

He sighed and shelved that line of thought as unhelpful, then leaned across and gently touched Libby on the shoulder. "Hey," he said softly. "We're home, okay?"

Libby yawned and blinked. "Already?"

Nick offered her a smile. "You slept the whole way here."

She blushed. "Oh."

"Hey; it's not a problem. You're not used to the hours and God knows they're anything but normal." He opened the truck door and climbed out. "C'mon - we'll fix something for dinner, then you can get some proper sleep."

"What about you?" Libby asked between yawns.

For answer, Nick patted his pager. "I'm on call this morning - I don't get to be off duty for another four hours, unfortunately."

"Wow, that sucks," said Libby stiffly climbing out of the truck.

"It's not so bad - and being on call only comes up if things have been all quiet. Kinda hard to be on call if you're already thirty miles out of town digging up the Alien that Elvis buried."

Libby stared. "Please tell me you're kidding."

Nick grinned. "That's not even the weirdest case I've had. Tryin' to explain a scuba diver up a tree. I don't think I'll ever beat that, even if I work for another twenty years."

"Now I know you're making this up."

"You can check with Catherine," he answered, locking the truck. "Or look it up in the court records - case is about four years old."

Libby eyed him across the hood of the truck. "Scuba diver up a tree. Sounds like an urban legend."

"Hand on heart, Libby, it was as real as you are. Though," he added, "if I hadn't seen it, I probably wouldn't have believed it either." He turned for the front door and then stopped as something across the street caught his eye. "Libby, was that van there last night when you got here?" And he inclined his head in the direction of the large silver-grey van parked directly opposite his house.

Libby blinked. "Uh, maybe? Why? Isn't it your neighbour's?"

Nick shook his head. "Most of my neighbours drive compacts or family saloons. Nothing that size."

"Maybe they have visitors."

Nick eyed the van. "Maybe." It was a rational explanation but something about the van's presence made him nervous all the same. It seemed like there were a few too many things happening at once. Or maybe it was just his rampant paranoia getting the jump on him because of the memories the Mendosa case review had dragged up.

"I thought you said something about dinner," said Libby, breaking across his train of thought.

"Yeah," he agreed, shelving the line of thought as unproductive. "Dinner's good." He headed up the path towards his front door. "What time did you arrange to meet Catherine?"

"She suggested six o'clock."

Nick unlocked the door and keyed in the alarm code. "Sounds good. C'mon..." But before he could finish, his pager bleeped loudly. With a groan, he unclipped the device and looked at the message. "Damn."

"What's up?" Libby asked.

"Looks like the quiet night hasn't exactly translated into a quiet morning. They're calling me out." Nick stepped aside to allow Libby into the house. "Lemme find out the details. Go on through and start fixing yourself some dinner."

As Libby went, Nick pulled his cell phone from his pocket and, after double checking the pager message, found Sophia Curtis' phone number in his list of contacts. Pressing send, he finally closed the front door and made his way through to the kitchen where Libby had begun to pull the fixings for a salad together.

"Curtis."

"Hey Sophia - you want me for something?" Nick asked.

"You are down as the CSI on call this morning," she answered. "And, so Barb Carmichael tells me, also primary on the floater from Lake Mead - which is pretty impressive, since I know you were out of town when we pulled that guy out of the water."

Nick snorted. "It's a long story. I figure if you're asking that, you've got another."

Now it was Sophia's turn to snort. "Same deal as the first one. We really need a CSI on hand when rescue pulls him out, just in case there's any trace--"

"--which there won't be," Nick completed. "Whole point of the dump is to get rid of trace."

"Anyway," Sophia continued as if he'd said nothing, "since you are CSI in charge on the case - and since Days are tapped right out on a drive by on Jefferson - it looks as though it gets to be you this time."

Nick sighed. "Lucky me. Where am I going?"

"Swallow Bay."

"Okay; I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"Hey; don't break any speed limits to get here."

Nick snorted. "I'm starting from Henderson. I'm already half way there."

Sophia's only response was to cut the call. Nick sighed and shook his head. Well there went his morning.

"You have to go, huh?" said Libby who had finished putting together her salad.

"Looks like." Nick grimaced. "Once I've gone, I want you to lock the front door and set the alarm - the code's in the notebook in the dresser drawer, okay? Ignore anyone who comes knocking on the door; at this time of day it's someone either looking to convert you or sell you magazines, so it's not worth bothering with. The phone ringer's turned right down, so you can ignore that, too." From one of the kitchen cupboards he pulled out his old cell phone and charger. "Plug this in and charge it up. If I do need to get a hold of you while I'm out, I'll call this, okay?"

"Uncle Nicky, I'm sixteen not six," said Libby with a roll of her eyes, although she did accept the proffered phone and charger. "And you sound really paranoid."

"Yeah well." Nick sighed. "Sometimes, darlin', just because you're paranoid, it doesn't mean there aren't folks out to get you. Besides, you're in a city you don't know. It's always good to be careful."

"I will be careful. I won't talk to strangers. I will lock up behind you. I-- What if I need to call you?"

Nick gestured to the dresser. "My current cell number is in the notebook too, along with my pager and a couple of other useful numbers. You know where everything is, right?"

"You showed me last night. Hadn't you better get going?" Libby asked.

"Yeah." Nick headed for the door. "Just in case I'm not back, better set the alarm clock for four pm."

"You'll be gone that long?" Libby sounded incredulous as she followed him back towards the door.

"Round here, anything's possible."

* * *

_To be continued..._


	5. Running Off The Tracks

Of the characters only Libby, Jim Maxwell and a few assorted goons, thugs and bad guys are my invention. The rest belong to CBS and people who are definitely not me; I'm just borrowing them for a little while. No harm, no foul.

Set in season 6, a day or so after the end of Gum Drops

With many, MANY thank yous to procrastin8or951 for the help and beta'ing

And thank you also to everyone who's read and reviewed and enjoyed - I'm just sorry that updates are currently taking me so long. The good news is that the next four chapters are all pretty much written, so assuming I don't get struck by lightning...

* * *

Running Off The Tracks

"Twenty minutes, Stokes - what kept you?" Sophia asked sardonically as Nick climbed out of his truck.

"You were the one who said no breaking speed limits," he retorted, grabbing his kit. "Besides, I doubt the body's going anywhere."

Sophia smirked and led the way down to the shoreline. "True. So who did you offend to get stuck with this case?"

"It ties back to a case I worked on in Dallas," Nick answered. "Days handed it all off to Catherine yesterday, who then handed it off to me last night, along with the case review from hell."

"Catherine's revenge for you getting stuck in Pioche?"

"Maybe." Nick turned his attention to the body, which was floating only a few feet from the shore. "So who called it in?"

"Jogger," said Sophia, waving a hand in the direction of a Lycra-clad woman currently giving her statement to a uniformed officer. "At first sight, she thought it was just a dummy."

"What made her change her mind?"

"The Rolex on his wrist," said Sophia.

"Yeah. Not too many dummies sport those and fewer still would end up in Lake Mead." Nick shook his head. "That's sloppy, though. You can get an ID through a Rolex - they're registered at point of sale."

"Sloppy?"

"The whole point of the dump is to get rid of trace and leave the bodies unidentifiable. So leaving the Rolex is either sloppy or..." Nick trailed off, frowning. "Or it's a taunt."

Sophia eyed him, but all she said was, "Well we'll know soon enough. The coroner's here now, so we can get the body out and see if we're gonna have any more luck with trace this time round."

Nick strongly suspected they wouldn't, but he made no comment. Instead, he got his camera out and waved to the coroner - not David Philips; one of the day crew he knew by sight alone - indicating that he was ready for them to start the recovery process. As the coroner stepped forwards, he started to photo document the body's recovery. First the back view as the body was hauled from the water by the coroner and a couple of members of the lake patrol. Then the front as the coroner rolled the body over. There was the trio of gun shots, which he'd expected, and track marks on both arms, which weren't a huge surprise.

"Male. Caucasian. Hasn't been in the water long," said the coroner.

"Any idea on time of death?" Nick asked, continuing to photograph the body. Whoever he'd been in life, the body wasn't terribly impressive in death. It was emaciated. If the track marks hadn't already given it away, Nick would have suspected the guy had been a junkie.

"I can give you cause," came the answer. "But time will have to wait for autopsy. Submersion in water screws with the body temp."

Nick nodded and snapped another couple of photos, concentrating on the three gun shots. "Let me guess; cause of death is three GSWs to the chest. Right?"

"It's observational skills like those that make you such a good CSI, Stokes," said Sophia dryly.

"Yeah, yeah." Nick crouched down beside the body and studied the vic's clothing. Should-have-been-white wife-beater; torn and stained cargo pants; no shoes. Rolex. It screamed planted evidence. "I'm gonna bag the watch here, if that's okay?"

"Go ahead," said the coroner. "Just let me know when you're ready for me to move the body."

After snapping off another couple of photos, this time documenting the watch in place on the body's wrist, Nick snagged a pair of gloves from his kit and pulled them on. "Sophia, it might be worth looking through recent robbery reports back at PD."

"You think the watch doesn't belong to the vic?"

Unfastening the watch strap, Nick lifted it away from the body's wrist. "A junkie with a Rolex?" He slipped the watch into an evidence bag and sealed it up. "A junkie in clothes fit for the incinerator, with no shoes but still wearing a Rolex?"

Sophia snorted. "I'll see what I can find."

Sophia took a few steps away, pulled her phone out and started calling PD. Nick dropped the evidence bag into his kit and turned his attention back to the body. He patted it down, checking for a wallet or a license card or anything else that might offer up an ID, but there was nothing. All the pockets were empty. Pretty much what he expected. He moved on to check the wrists and ankles for ligature marks, but there were none. No visible abrasions or contusions, either. Nothing, in fact, to suggest how a man in his late twenties had come to be shot three times and then dumped into Lake Mead. That just left the formalities - taking samples of both the ground beneath the body and the lake water. The former to rule out any trace picked up during the recovery process, the latter just in case the man had still, somehow, been breathing when he'd been dumped.

He waved the coroner over. "All yours," he said. "Any idea when he'll be posted?"

The coroner shrugged. "You did hear about the shoot out on Jefferson, right?"

"I heard it was a drive by."

"Turned into a shoot out," said the coroner. "Five dead. Your vic'll be behind them."

Nick grimaced as he shovelled some lake shore grit into a sample jar. That would mean the earliest the autopsy would be was mid-afternoon. "In that case, I'll pick the report up from Doc Robbins tonight."

"Worried you're gonna turn into a pumpkin if you're out beyond midday?" jibed the coroner.

"Something like that." He added the grit sample to his kit and selected a bottle to use for the lake sample. "Besides, no offense, but I don't think the autopsy's gonna tell me much more than I already know."

"So," said Sophia returning, "looks like you might be right about the watch. Uniforms took down a robbery report from a businessman about two weeks ago. He had his wallet and watch stolen at gun point. And not by our vic here, either."

Nick labeled the water sample and added it to his kit. "What makes you say that?"

"The uniforms got a description of his attacker. No way that," she jabbed a hand at the body being lifted onto the gurney, "is a six five two hundred some odd pound bald guy with ears that stick out like, quote, 'Dumbo', unquote."

"No-o." Nick peeled his gloves off and bagged them. "Crap."

Sophia lifted an eyebrow. "Crap?"

"I think I can probably ID the guy's attacker. I don't suppose the guy's still in Vegas?"

"He's at the Tangiers," said Sophia. "You want to talk to him?"

Nick sighed. "Yeah. Who knows. Maybe I'm wrong." He finally stood up. "In fact, this is one time I really hope I am wrong."

* * *

After a quick stop at the lab to drop off the evidence he'd collected and to pick up the relevant file from the stack Dallas had sent, Nick headed across to PD. Sophia had said she'd call the robbery victim down to PD so that they could talk, using the pretext of having the vic - a Robert Jacobson from Baltimore - fill out a property claim form for the watch. It was a pretext that worked for Nick and spared him from having to fight down to the Strip to do the interview. Unfortunately, when he reached PD, he found the obvious hole in the plan.

"He can't be here for another hour," said Sophia in a resigned tone of voice as she led Nick across to her desk in the bullpen.

Nick looked at his watch. Nearly midday. That meant he wouldn't be done here until somewhere near to two o'clock and there was a phone call he ought to make after that, too. "Great."

"So, you never said why you think you can ID this guy," said Sophia.

"Because he sounds like a suspect in the case from Dallas. And believe me, you ever meet this guy, he's not someone you forget."

"Suspect? He didn't actually do it?"

"Could never prove it."

Sophia frowned. "Seems to me you'd be happy if this was your guy. Finally tie up that loose end. Where's the problem?"

Nick scrubbed a hand over his face and dropped into a convenient seat. "This guy isn't the brains of the operation. He's hired muscle."

"And you don't know who the brains is?"

"Well that would be the problem," said Nick with a grimace. "There's two likely candidates. One of them is a heroin pushing scumbag, Roberto Mendosa, who was the brains behind the murders in Dallas. We had to let him walk when the case against him went south like you wouldn't believe. The other guy is the reason the case went south and, if there's any kinda justice in this world, he should still be in jail."

Sophia pulled her keyboard towards her. "Well seems to me that's something we need to check on. What's this other guy's name?"

"Chris Johns."

"Don't suppose you know his prison number?"

"No, but there can't be too many guys with that name in the Texas system."

"Okay." Sophia set the search running. "See what that kicks out. What did he go down for?"

"It was a tricky situation. He should have gotten charged with tampering with state's evidence and probably some kind of accessory to murder rap, but they couldn't prove the accessory to murder because of the screwing with evidence. And they couldn't charge him with that without bringing into question damn near every conviction put through the Dallas courts in the previous fifteen years."

Sophia winced. "So what did they get him on?"

"Attempted murder, I think. I know his lawyer tried to cut some sort of deal, but the ADA prosecuting didn't go for it."

"Not the DA?" Sophia looked a little surprised. "Case like this--"

"It was complicated," Nick cut in. "The DA had to recuse himself before the defence argued bias. Victim was the DA's brother."

"Ouch." Sophia gestured to the screen. "I have a hit. This your guy?"

Nick leaned forwards to look at the screen which was now displaying a mugshot and some brief details from a prisoner's record. He nodded. "Yeah; that's the guy. Ten years is all he got? Man. Justice at work, huh?"

"It's worse than that," said Sophia. "Looks like he got parole back in March of this year."

"Time off for good behaviour." Nick shook his head in disgust. "Makes you wonder why we bother. Are there details of his PO given on there?"

"You want them?"

"Well, one of us needs to check on where he is."

"Good point." Sophia picked up her phone. "Here's hoping he's turned over a new leaf." So saying, she dialed the number and sat back, waiting for the call to connect.

Absently, Nick chewed at the corner of his thumb, unsure what he was really hoping for. What if Johns was still in Dallas? It would make his life simpler at a personal level, but vastly more complicated as far as the case went. After all, Mendosa had no real reason to have come to Vegas and the method of killing and dumping was far too specific for this not to be in some way related to the Dallas case. On the other hand, if Johns wasn't in Dallas, what then? Was it logic or raging paranoia that said the reason this was all going down here and now was because of what happened eight years ago? And if it was Johns behind it all, where did that leave him?

If.

It was a word Nick had long since learned to hate.

"No, I don't want to order take-out."

Sophia's annoyed comment dragged Nick from his thoughts. Some while, while he'd been wool-gathering, her call had connected, though it didn't sound like it had gone through to the right place. That thought was born out by her next comment,

"Yes, I'm sure it's very good Dim Sum. Unfortunately I'm in Las Vegas, not Dallas."

Nick stared. "Dim Sum?" he mouthed.

Sophia shook her head. "No, I'm sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Kwan. Thank you for your time." She hung up. "Well that was a bust."

"Unless you wanted Dim Sum," said Nick with a smile.

"Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, Cowboy," Sophia retorted. "You're the one with contacts in the area, you get to go hunt up the real phone number for the PO. The one on the system's wrong."

"No kidding." That just gained him a withering glare from the detective, who started to scribble down the details he'd need. "See what I can do. And I think," he added, "our guy just got here." He inclined his head in the direction of the desk sergeant who was pointing a willowy looking man in a suit in Sophia's direction.

"You did check it's his watch?" Sophia asked.

Nick favoured her with a look. "I don't tell you how to read someone his rights, you don't tell me how to look after evidence."

They both got to their feet as the man approached. "Just checking," said Sophia with a faint smirk. "Mr. Jacobson? I'm Detective Curtis, this is Nick Stokes from the Crime Lab. Thank you for coming down."

"You said when you called that you'd found my watch," said Jacobson, his voice immediately betraying both a certain arrogance and the fact that, while he might currently reside in Baltimore, his original home was somewhere well to the south.

Nick couldn't help but be reminded of some of the people his parents occasionally had to entertain.

"Unfortunately," Sophia was saying, "while we have recovered your watch, it's currently evidence in another crime we're investigating."

"In other words," sneered Jacobson, "you're telling me I can't have my watch back."

"Yet," said Nick, joining the conversation for the first time. "As soon as the investigation is concluded, your watch will be returned to you."

Jacobson didn't look remotely satisfied by that statement. "And how long will that take?"

"It's hard to say," said Sophia, "but you may be able to help us. We just have a couple of questions about your attack, if you don't mind."

"I gave a report to the uniformed officers," Jacobson retorted. "I don't see--"

"We just want to clarify a couple of things," said Nick soothingly. "Specifically about your attacker." From the file he'd collected, he pulled out a photograph. "Is this the man who attacked you?" And he held the photograph out.

Jacobson sneered, but obligingly looked at the photograph. "It looks like it could be," he finally allowed. "And his ears certainly stick out far enough."

"Thank you." Nick tucked the photo back into the file.

"And," Sophia continued, "if you wouldn't mind just clarifying exactly where the attack took place."

Jacobson snorted. "As I told the uniformed officers, I was walking back to my hotel after a late meeting at the Bellagio..."

Nick tuned out the rest of Jacobson's words. He had what he needed. It wasn't exactly a positive ID - the photo was over eight years old and Jacobson had been attacked after dark. It certainly wasn't enough to issue anything official, but it definitely gave him a starting point. The question still remained: a starting point for what?

* * *

Nick was still debating that point some half an hour later as he eyed the work room phone with distaste. Three names were buzzing through his brain now: Chris Johns; Daniel McMahon, aka Lugs; Roberto Mendosa. All three were Dallas based. None of the names, when he'd run them by the gangs unit, meant anything to anyone in Las Vegas. That meant either they weren't here or they were too new to have gotten themselves noticed. A call through to Dallas could settle which that was.

After all, if Mendosa was running his restaurant or Johns was abiding by the terms of his parole, they couldn't be in Las Vegas. Lugs, admittedly, was a slightly different case, but it could still be possible to prove he was in Dallas and had nothing to do with this.

It just meant a call to Dallas. It shouldn't have been difficult. Except that Nick had so far been sitting in the lab work room for half an hour, staring at the phone without picking the receiver up to dial. He had ended up leaving Dallas with most of his bridges burned, just by virtue of how this case had turned out. No one, it seemed, liked to know that the green legacy hire had seen something they'd all missed. He could, of course, just call Dallas PD instead of the lab, but without a name to talk to, that would probably be an exercise in futility and take up time that he just didn't have to spare. At least with the lab he had the name of the supervisor that Las Vegas Dayshift supervisor, Barb Carmichael, had already spoken to.

He snorted. It would have to be the person who'd had the most to say on the subject of green legacy hires. Nick rubbed his face tiredly. It had been eight years. He wasn't the green CSI 1 any more - hadn't been for a long time. He could be a professional about this. Personal history didn't come into it; it was just one investigator calling for more information from another.

"Cowboy up," he muttered, finally reaching for the phone. "Maybe it won't be as bad as you think."

It didn't stop his fingers from shaking as he dialed the number, nor did it stop his heart from pounding just a little bit faster as he listened to the call ringing.

"Dallas Crime Lab, how can I help?"

Nick swallowed and rubbed his free hand against his thigh. "Uh, hi; I was wondering if I could speak to Jim Maxwell."

"Just one moment - who should I say is calling?"

"Uh, Nick Stokes from the Las Vegas lab."

There was a click as the call was put on hold.

Nick sighed as he realised at least a small part of him had been hoping Jim wouldn't be available. Of course, there was still the possibility of Jim refusing to take the call.

Another click on the line was followed by, "Maxwell."

So much for Jim not taking the call. "Hey, Jim."

There was a long pause, then: "It really is you. I told Carla this was a prank. I mean, you left here without so much as a backwards glance."

Nick rubbed the back of his neck and tried to ignore the fact that Jim sounded as pissed off today as he'd been eight years ago. "No prank."

"Actually, I'm kinda glad you called," said Jim, his tone thawing a little.

"You are?" And for the life of him, Nick couldn't manage to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

There was a faint snort in response. "Nicky, we all got to hear about what happened back in May. Put a few things into perspective."

"Yeah." Nick sighed. Of course they'd gotten to hear about that. "For me as well."

"I still think you were a complete ass for going after Johns on your own, but the other stuff? Hell, I probably didn't really mean it at the time, never mind now."

Nick chuckled weakly. "If it makes any difference, I'm pretty sure Grissom's gonna share your opinion over Johns."

"Grissom? As in the entomologist guru? You work with him now?"Jim's turn to sound incredulous.

"There were other reasons I took the job in Vegas, Jim." They'd just been minor details at the time; Nick knew he would have taken a job anywhere over staying with the Dallas lab.

That provoked a small laugh. "Next time you're in Dallas, stop by the lab. We'll have a drink."

Nick found himself smiling in relief. This was going to be okay. "Sounds good to me - and the same stands if you're ever over in Vegas."

"Deal." There was a pause. "Did you know someone at your lab was getting interested in the Mendosa files?"

Nick sighed. "That's actually why I'm calling. Our Dayshift pulled a DB out of Lake Mead. It matched to the Mendosa John and Jane Does."

There was a long pause. "You sure?"

"IBIS kicked out the match. Two of the bullets are from the same guns Mendosa and his goons used, the COD's the same, the dump site's the same type... About the only difference between then and now is the timeline."

"What do you mean?"

"If you remember, the Mendosa bodies piled up over a period of, what? Eight months? Something like. We've already had a second body. The autopsy hasn't been done yet - the body only got pulled out of Lake Mead a couple of hours ago - but I've seen it and there's no way this body isn't linked to the first."

Jim whistled. "That's some escalation."

"Yeah."

"So what do you need? And why are you calling and not the lead investigator?"

Nick rubbed the back of his neck again. "Lead investigator would probably be me - at least at this point. The whole mess got handed off to me, including the review of all the Mendosa files, last night."

"So you're not doing this on the quiet, behind everyone's back?"

Then again, maybe it wouldn't be okay. "Jim, this isn't eight years ago. You can check the assignment with the assistant supervisor of Graveyard shift if it'll make you feel any better. You want her name?" Nick knew his his tone was sliding into defensiveness, but couldn't seem to stop it. Did Jim really think he'd learned nothing in eight years?

"Hey; you can't blame me for asking. The whole mess got crazy and if you wanted to find a little street justice this time round--"

"What I want," said Nick tersely, "is to do my job. I got it wrong with Johns, and I know that, but at the time, I had no idea what else I could do or who I could go to. The only person I knew wouldn't be on Mendosa's payroll was Shelley and IAB had just gotten to her."

"You really thought--"

"I didn't know," Nick cut in. "Besides, would you have believed me if I'd told you? I mean Chris Johns was supposed to be just this side of sainthood, and he was your friend..."

Jim sighed. "Point taken."

Nick scrubbed at his face, suddenly feeling exhausted. "Look, can we save the rehashing for another time? All I need to know is two pieces of information. I need the number for the go-to guy over at PD when it comes to gang activity and I need the number of Chris Johns' PO - the number the system kicked out for him is wrong."

"Wrong?"

"I mean it's not the right number - don't know if the data entry clerk got some numbers twisted or something, but you call it, you get a Chinese restaurant in downtown Dallas."

Jim snorted. "And you don't think the PO's moonlighting there?"

"Not unless you know something about him that I don't."

That just got another snort. "I'll have to get back to you about that - I'll need to do some digging. As for the guy you need to speak to over at PD, your best bet is probably Detective Benny di Luca. Though I can tell you something for nothing: whatever's going on in Vegas is nothing to do with Mendosa."

"What makes you say that?"

"I witnessed his autopsy about eighteen months after you left. Guy's been dead seven years."

"Really? Huh." Nick shook his head, even as a lead ball started to form in the pit of his stomach. "Kinda surprised the case file for that wasn't included in the stuff you sent over. Everything else was."

"It wasn't sent because it wasn't a murder. Get this: he dropped down dead after suffering an aneurysm. Coroner ruled natural causes. Never could decide if that was the ultimate form of justice or the ultimate escape from justice."

"Yeah. Well that narrows the field some, doesn't it?"

"Still want di Luca's number?"

"Yeah. Unless you know whether Lugs McMahon's been sighted recently?"

"Not sure di Luca's gonna know that any more than I do," said Jim. "Lugs always had a profile lower than a snake with a hat on."

"I still need to ask the question."

Nick scribbled down the number Jim gave him and the call ended with Jim's promise to fax across the details of Johns' parole officer. Setting the receiver back in its cradle, he frowned. Mendosa was out of the picture. He ought to be relieved. It meant there was one less scumbag peddling death to unsuspecting kids. It also meant he had one less likely suspect and that was what was unsettling him.

"C'mon, give it up. You're way too tired to be worryin' about this," he finally muttered, pushing away from the desk. "Time to let it go for a bit."

And it was, he realised. A glance at his watch told him it was now rapidly approaching four o'clock in the afternoon. He'd been awake nearly twenty-two hours. It was time to go home and, if not sleep, at least think about other things for a while. This mess would still be waiting for him when he signed back in that evening.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	6. The Stillness of Remembering

Of the characters only Libby, Jim Maxwell and a few assorted goons, thugs and bad guys are my invention. The rest belong to CBS and people who are definitely not me; I'm just borrowing them for a little while. No harm, no foul.

Set in season 6, a day or so after the end of Gum Drops

With many, MANY thank yous to procrastin8or951 for the help and beta'ing

Content warning: While there's nothing in this chapter that you wouldn't see on screen in a CSI episode, this chapter does come with a content warning for a discussion about potentially triggering material.

And thank you also to everyone who's read and reviewed and enjoyed - I'm just sorry that updates are currently taking me so long. The good news is that the next four chapters are all pretty much written, so assuming I don't get struck by lightning...

* * *

The Stillness of Remembering

There was an ache beginning to build behind his eyes as Nick finally pulled up in front of his house. He needed sleep in the worst way, but there wouldn't be time for it. One glance at his watch told him he had less than an hour before he and Libby needed to get going for Catherine's. Way too little time for sleep. He'd have to settle for caffeine in large quantities and hope like hell that things had calmed down at the lab by the time he got back there.

As he climbed out of his truck, however, a new thought flashed through his mind. Grissom was back tonight. Nick groaned deeply. That figured. It was hard enough to face Grissom when you were on top of your game and feeling A-okay. Grissom was going to make mincemeat out of him.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. Somehow, he couldn't muster enough energy to worry about that. Not yet, at least. Maybe once he'd had a pot of coffee.

"C'mon. One foot in front of the other," he muttered, locking the truck. "You've done this before, you can do this again."

As he turned to go into the house, he caught a glimpse of the van parked opposite. He frowned. Why was it still there? Maybe it was the lack of sleep fueling his paranoia but something about its continued presence made him suspicious. For a second, he flashed back to Nigel Crane, then dismissed the idea. It wouldn't be Crane. Couldn't be; he'd had a letter only a week or so ago notifying him of a new competency hearing which meant that Crane was still safely incarcerated. That didn't mean it wasn't someone else keeping an eye on him, or on one of his neighbours, though.

Unlocking his front door, Nick pulled out his cell phone and found the number for PD. Then he hesitated. The last thing he needed was for the uniforms to have anything more to razz him about, particularly when he was almost positive his suspicions were borne purely out of paranoia. Then again...

Nick sighed and scrolled further through his contacts list until he found Sophia's number, then dialled it before he could talk himself out of it.

"Curtis."

"Hey, Sophia."

"Stokes, what the hell are you doing even being conscious right now?" Sophia sounded oddly annoyed by that fact.

Nick finally stepped inside his house and smiled faintly. "Seem to remember you volunteering me to track down that PO's number which, just so's you know, should be waiting for me when I clock in tonight. Look, could you do me a favour?"

"Sure, if it means you're gonna get some sleep."

Nick closed his eyes for a moment. The constant mothering from some of his colleagues was really beginning to annoy him. "If I can."

Perhaps Sophia picked up on his irritation because her next question was simply, "So what's this favour?"

He reopened his eyes and started towards the kitchen. "There's an unmarked van parked up outside my neighbour's house. It's been there all day, far as I can tell, and I think it was there last night, too. I know it isn't my neighbour's van - 'fact, I don't think there's anyone at this end of the street who drives anything that size, apart from me."

"And you think there's something off about it?"

"Either that or I'm having paranoia issues." Nick started pulling out the fixings to make a pot of coffee. "Could go either way."

Sophia snorted. "What's the address and do you have a plate number?"

Nick gave his neighbour's address and added, "It's an Arizona plate, last three letters PBK."

"All right; I'll take a look into it."

Sophia hung up before he could say anything else. Nick turned the coffee machine on and dumped his cell phone on the counter. At least she hadn't told him he was being ridiculous. And, he admitted, he supposed she probably had a point about that sleep thing, too - it just wasn't something he could fix. Maybe Catherine would let him sack out after diner.

Nick snorted. Who was he kidding? She'd probably take one look at him and lay him out on the couch before he could even say hello.

The coffee machine gurgled, letting him know it was done. Okay. Time to get moving again. He needed to shower, shave and change - he was already going to get crap from people for being tired without making them think the worst. He also needed to check Libby was up and ready.

That reminder made him pause. He'd subconsciously been expecting to find her sitting in the living room channel surfing or with her nose buried deep in one of his books. The fact that she wasn't worried him. Pouring himself a cup of coffee, he decided that the best course of action was to see if she was awake and then go from there.

Unfortunately, when Nick knocked on his bedroom door he got no response. Frowning, he called, "Libby?"

"In the bathroom," came the answer.

Nick's frown deepened. Libby sounded as if she was sick - which she definitely hadn't been when he'd left her that morning. Food poisoning was unlikely. So was some sort of bug. A hangover was improbable. What did that leave? "Libby, are you okay?"

"Fine."

It was the same lie he used. "Uh-huh." He moved towards the bathroom door. "So you're actually feeling like three-day-old crap and don't want to tell me because it's not what a Stokes is supposed to do. Right?"

The only answer was the sound of someone throwing up.

Nick sighed. "C'mon Libby, I'm the last person who's gonna give you crap about this."

"I'm fine."

"Fine doesn't include puking like you went to an all night kegger."

That provoked a tired snort. "I'm fine," she repeated.

Nick rolled his eyes. Sometimes Stokes Family stoicism could be a real pain in the ass. "Libby, we both know that is a pile of crap. If you were fine, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

The toilet flushed and a moment later the door opened. Libby looked pale and her eyes were red-rimmed. "I'm fine."

"Works even less well face to face," said Nick gently. "Stop trying to kid me. Better still, stop trying to kid yourself. You're not fine, and that's okay. No matter what your dad says, sometimes it really is okay to not be 'fine'."

"You don't understand."

Carefully, Nick wrapped his arm around her shoulders and gently led her into the living room. "Don't I?" He guided her down onto the couch, then perched on the coffee table in front of her, not letting her hide. "Libby, darlin', I'll tell you what I do understand, okay? I understand that there's a lot of very bad stuff goes on and happens to good people. I understand that some of that bad stuff can be so bad that you wind up feeling like it might somehow have been your fault. One thing I understand better than anything else, that bad stuff can be real difficult to talk about, so I know that this is hard. The kicker is, the longer you don't talk about it, the harder it gets and Grandma told me this has been going on more than a month, so I'm figuring right around now, you're feeling like this is the hardest thing you've ever had to do. And it is. I know it is. But, darlin', you need to tell someone."

"You gonna tell me to cowboy up?" Libby asked.

"Hell no." Nick smiled faintly. "I ain't your dad and you ain't been thrown from a horse."

"Kinda feel like I have."

"Then this is one horse you don't have to get back on, Libby. Whatever happened was not your fault, okay?"

"He said it was."

"He's a liar."

"I couldn't fight him off. If I could have fought him off it wouldn't have happened."

"You shouldn't have had to fight anyone off. No means no."

"He wouldn't stop. I couldn't get him to stop. It's my fault."

The tears came and all Nick could do was wrap his arms around her frail shoulders and hold her and repeat over and again, "No, it wasn't your fault, Libby. None of this is your fault."

He didn't think he'd ever felt so inadequate.

* * *

"Lindsey, have you done your homework yet?" Catherine called as she frantically tidied the living room.

"It's math," said Lindsey from the doorway. "And I wanted to ask Nick about it and why are you tidying up?"

"Because the house is a mess and we have company for dinner. And is math the only homework you have?"

"It's only Nick - he doesn't count as company."

"It's Nick and his niece Libby, so yes he does count as company - and you didn't answer my question." Catherine finally looked up from the pile of magazines she was shuffling. "Didn't you tell me last week you had a history quiz?"

"That was today," said Lindsey with an eye roll. "It sucked. And yes," she added, "I've done all my other homework. You can check my schedule if you have to."

"What was it?" Before her daughter could come up with a smart retort, Catherine added, "I'm only asking because I'm interested, okay? If you say you've done it, I believe you."

Lindsey didn't look remotely convinced, but she did condescend to answer: "Just some reading for English. I already finished the book, though."

That persuaded Catherine to stop her efforts altogether. "You did?"

"At the weekend," Lindsey clarified. "It was sorta cool."

From Lindsey, who was not much of a reader, that constituted high praise. Catherine smiled. "Sounds like it was a good book."

Lindsey might or might not have had something further to say, but at that moment the doorbell sounded and Catherine realised that she'd barely made a dent in the mess. She shook her head. Maybe Lindsey was right - it was only Nick and he had certainly seen the house looking far worse than this.

"Linds could you go check on the spaghetti sauce?" she asked, even as she started for the door.

Clearly pleased to get out of the homework discussion so easily, Lindsey departed in the direction of the kitchen. Catherine shook her head again and opened the front door, fully expecting Nick to greet her with an apology for being early and an offer to help out. Instead the sight that greeted her made her wonder, for a second, if she'd some how been transported back in time by six months. Nick looked pale and tired - just the same as when the ant bites and the nightmares had been at their very worst.

"Please don't tell me I look like crap," said Nick tiredly. "I already know."

Silently, Catherine stood aside to allow Nick into the house. He was followed by Libby who, if possible, looked even worse than her uncle. Her eyes were red-rimmed, as if she'd been crying, while her face was chalky white with a faintly greenish tinge. Long experience with Lindsey had taught her what that was likely to mean and instead of offering words of greeting, Catherine found herself saying, "There's a bathroom just through there, Libby."

Shame and humiliation flashed across Libby's face, before she vanished from view into the bathroom.

Catherine closed the front door and turned on Nick. "What the hell is going on?" she demanded softly.

Nick winced. "Dayshift were tapped out - some kind of drive-by or shoot out, not sure which - so when PD got a call about a DB floating in Lake Mead, they called me in on it."

"So you snagged a double and Libby's...what? Snagged food poisoning?"

"Not exactly." Nick sighed. "I think this may be morning sickness."

Catherine stared for a few moments. "What?"

"You have no idea how much I'm hoping that I'm wrong, but I can't get the facts to add up any other way."

Catherine led the way into the living room and gestured for Nick to sit down. "Start from the beginning," she directed.

"You remember Suzanna Kirkwood?" Nick asked.

Catherine felt her stomach turn over at the name. It was impossible to remember the names of every victim, but some cases were equally impossible to forget. The Kirkwood case was one of those. She knew it had haunted Sara for a long, long time and it hadn't been much better for anyone else. Silently, she nodded.

"I think that Libby's gone through something similar." He swallowed. "This is the kid I taught to ride when she was six, Cath. Played catch with, babysat...this is just wrong."

"It's always wrong, Nicky," said Catherine softly.

"I mean, she should have been able to go to her parents and tell them. She shouldn't have had to run clear across the country." Nick put his head in his hands. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

Catherine thought for a moment. "Just say this was a case."

"Cath I--"

She held up a hand. "Just say this was a case. You have a young girl who's too terrified by what's happened to talk to you. What would you do?"

"Ask you or Sara to talk to her, but I can't--"

"You're not," said Catherine firmly. "I'm offering. Let me talk to her. If this is what you're thinking, you're gonna need to talk with your brother--"

"More likely Cisco and Mom," said Nick softly.

"Well, whoever it is, you're gonna need to talk to them - but there's no point doing that until you know for sure. So let me talk to her, and while I do that, you can catch a nap."

"Cath, I can't--"

"You can. Put it another way, do you really want to deal with Warrick and Sara pointing out that you didn't look this bad in hospital? And don't think Grissom and Greg would be that far behind them, either. And then there's Hodges, Mandy, Archie..."

Nick winced. "No need to haul out the big guns."

Catherine pointed to the couch. "Right. Nap."

When he didn't make any further protest and, instead, meekly stretched out on the couch, Catherine realised exactly how tired he was feeling and inwardly cursed. Why couldn't the universe just give him a break?

* * *

Libby leaned against the sink and splashed a little cold water on her face. Her stomach did seem to finally be settling, although she wasn't exactly anxious to try eating anything just yet, just in case the sickness came back. She also wasn't sure how she was supposed to face either her uncle or Catherine after such a humiliating exit.

She supposed that she couldn't simply hide in the bathroom for the rest of the night, but it certainly was a tempting idea.

There was a light tap on the bathroom door, then, "Libby?" Catherine's voice was soft. "How're you doing?"

Libby sighed and unlocked the door. Opening it, she found Catherine waiting just outside. "I'm sorry."

"Hey, don't be," said Catherine offering a small smile. "When you're feeling crappy, you're feeling crappy." She held out a glass of ginger ale. "Thought this might help."

Cautiously, Libby accepted the glass and took a sip. When her stomach didn't immediately rebel, she heaved a sigh of relief. Maybe this was all over.

"So," Catherine continued, "I need to make a run to the store - I was wondering if you'd come with me?"

"Uncle Nicky asked you to talk to me," said Libby, torn between resignation and relief. She knew her uncle wouldn't - couldn't - let this go, not now that he'd heard so much, but maybe it would be easier to get it out that first time to someone else. Someone not family at all.

"Actually, I offered." Catherine smiled faintly. "But I really do need to run to the store."

"Okay," Libby whispered.

This time, Catherine's smile was a reassuring one. "All right; let's get out of here."

In almost no time at all, Libby found herself touring the aisles of Catherine's local supermarket, helping the older woman to pick out necessities and snacks. To her general surprise, the conversation remained rooted on groceries and gradually, Libby found herself relaxing under the normalcy of being asked if she preferred Chips Ahoy or Soft Batch.

It was only later, once the groceries had been bought and Catherine had directed her to the in-store coffee shop, that the conversation veered towards more dangerous territory.

"If I offer you a coffee, are you going to turn it down?" Catherine asked.

Reluctantly, Libby nodded.

"Because you don't like coffee or because you can't have caffeine?"

"No caffeine," said Libby miserably.

Catherine nodded slowly. "Okay. Take a seat - I won't be a minute."

Libby did as she was told and sat down at the nearest table while Catherine went up to the counter and ordered a couple of drinks. She found herself once more feeling torn between hoping for the drinks to be made quickly and wishing that the order would never be completed. A small part of her was tempted to use the delay to sneak away and avoid the conversation altogether, but the greater part of her knew just how silly that would be. Despite what she'd said to Nick when she'd first arrived, there really wasn't anywhere else she could go - Aunt Anna in Nebraska was just a shadowy figure she'd heard about but never met. And, she had to admit, now she'd got this far, there was a part of her ready to talk.

"Here," said Catherine, placing a cup on the table in front of her. "Just some chamomile tea."

"Thank you," Libby murmured, wrapping her hands around the warm mug and realising for the first time just how cold her hands had grown.

"So..." Catherine's voice was gentle. "Pregnant, huh?"

Libby felt her cheeks flame bright red. "I think so." She looked down at the table. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry? What the heck do you have to be sorry for, Libby?"

"I-- You won't-- I mean Lindsey--"

Catherine's hand squeezed her arm gently. "Libby, this was not your fault. It also doesn't mean you can't babysit for Lindsey. One of the things you learn, very quickly, as a CSI is that bad things happen to good people and the only people you can hold those bad things against are the people who make them happen."

"You-- you investigate this sort of thing?" Libby asked, still looking down.

"Yes, we do."

"So, Uncle Nicky already knows?"

"He suspects." Catherine gave Libby's arm another gentle squeeze. "Why don't you tell me what happened?"

Libby took in a long, shuddering breath. "I'm a junior in high school and I was on the Homecoming committee this year. We were going to organise a couple of big events this year - the school's fifty years old this year. I was going to try and get Uncle Nicky to come to one of them...he went to the school. All my aunts did as well. And my dad. Couple of my cousins, too."

"Sounds like there's been at least one Stokes at the school for most of the past twenty years," said Catherine lightly.

A laugh bubbled up in the back of Libby's throat. "Something like that."

"So, what happened?"

"We-- There was supposed to be a committee meeting. At least, that's what Brian told me. After school. There wasn't anything strange about that. We were kinda squeezing the meetings in whenever because we didn't have too much time to get things done. So, after class, I went along to where we were supposed to be meeting, but there wasn't anyone there and-- and then someone grabbed me. Blindfolded me." Libby swallowed. "I tried to scream for help but it was after school. There was no one around. I tried to fight them off but they were bigger than me and...I couldn't do it."

Catherine squeezed her arm again. "Libby, honey, there's no shame in that. Listen to me: this isn't your fault. None of it. They chose to do this, not you."

"No means no, right?" Libby whispered.

"Right."

"That's what Uncle Nicky said. So why didn't they stop?"

"Because, unfortunately, there are some people who don't accept that. They're the ones in the wrong, though. Not you."

Libby swallowed again. "I want to believe that."

"Then do," Catherine urged. "What happened to you is something that should never, ever happen to anyone."

The clear conviction in Catherine's words soothed away the lingering doubts in Libby's mind. She finally found the strength to meet Catherine's gaze and found it full of sympathy which just brought forth more tears. Silently, Catherine simply offered a tissue and waited.

"I'm sorry," Libby finally managed.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Libby. Trust me on that." Catherine sighed. "The people who attacked you, were they kids in your class?"

"I-- I know there was two of them. There was one holding me down, I didn't recognise his voice. The-- the other, the one who-- who raped me, he was in my class. Tommy Denly."

"What about this Brian - the one who told you about the meeting?"

Libby shook her head. "I don't know. He-- I don't think he was there but..."

"No; I know." Catherine gave her arm another squeeze. "I know how hard this is, Libby. You're doing great, though. I'm just gonna ask a couple more questions, okay, then we'll go home and get some dinner. Firstly, when did this happen?"

Libby sniffed. "September second."

"That means nearly twelve weeks ago, right?" Libby nodded. "Have you seen a doctor?"

Libby shook her head. "I've been too scared to."

"I can imagine," said Catherine.

With those three words, Libby realised that Catherine could - and did - understand it all. "It's such a mess."

"Yeah," Catherine agreed. "It's that all right, and I can't tell you that it's gonna get any easier just yet. But you will get through this."

And for the first time since early September, Libby thought she just might.

* * *

_To be continued..._


End file.
